


this is everything i wanna say (but can’t say yet)

by xeah



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, Artist Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coffee Shops, Deaf Lance (Voltron), Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, GOOD.LOTOR, Gay Keith (Voltron), Good Lotor (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Mute Lance (Voltron), Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Lance (Voltron), Protective Keith (Voltron), Rating May Change, Sketches, Team as Family, Worried Keith (Voltron), adashi, and keith is twenty/twenty-one, do not come at me with that underage bullshit, he voluntarily doesn’t talk you’ll see why, i fucken repeat, it's not underage because their relationship will start when lance is 18
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18474028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xeah/pseuds/xeah
Summary: Lance’s ability to sketch the future has brought him nothing but pain and misery all his life, because the only kind of future he can draw is that of death. One day, he meets Takashi Shirogane, older brother of mullet-wearing Keith Kogane opening a new bookstore across from Lance’s favourite coffee shop. Hours later, he sketches Shiro’s death. In three months, Lance has to somehow prevent what he drew from becoming reality and save Shiro’s life, deal with his family’s ostracizing of him for what he can do, struggle to figure out what he truly wants for himself, and juggle his budding feelings for Keith whilst keeping Shiro’s inevitable future a secret from Keith for fear of being rejected because of an ability he can’t control.Just like his family blames him for his sister’s death.





	1. [3,731]

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about "we thought we knew (we know nothing)". I HAVE NOT. I just kind of...I know where I'm going with that story and I know where it is going to go, I just sort of burned myself out a bit? So. Here. I guess?
> 
> Title of the fic is from Euphoria by Echos. It's stylized in the same way my other fics on here are, but it's not part of the same universe/AU as them...or is it?
> 
> Key  
> “[Blablabla]” – signing and speaking out loud  
> [Blablabla] in italics – signing without speaking out loud

A child’s scribbles aren’t supposed to mean as much as Lance’s did.

He was five. He didn’t know that there was something wrong with the slashes he made across the page –  with the way the pen he gripped so hard that it left imprints in his palm and made whorls of black ink that seemed to come alive on the page – with the image that slowly started to form in what should have been a simple drawing that shouldn’t have meant anything. He didn’t know that other kids his age were drawing simpler things – with more or less the same finesse any five-year-old would possess – but none of them were drawing things like he was.

He thought he was the one who was normal for what he drew. He thought they were the odd ones. He thought he was special for how normal he was. He didn’t know that the truth was that yes, he was special – but _they_ were the normal ones. They were the normal ones because they were the ones who weren’t drawing what he was.

He was special, but not because he was normal.

He didn’t figure it out until it was too late to do anything about it.

He remembers the day, a few years later, that he realized that there was something wrong with what he was drawing. Not just different, but sinfully __wrong.__ He remembers that day with a painful clarity that has haunted him for most of his life.

It started out normal, all things considered. He was eight so he had to go to school while Luis the youngest went to kindergarten, Lance off to middle school, and Marco and his sister, Veronica, went to high school. He liked going to school, back then. He always came home having learnt something new. He liked learning new things. It made him feel smart, like Veronica.

Lance loves Veronica.

Lance is a middle child. Not quite old enough to have as much attention drawn to him because he has to be good and set a perfect example to the younger ones, not quite young enough to have as much attention naturally drawn to him just because he was the most recent born, the baby of the family. He minded it, sometimes, how he’d have to fight for that attention, craving it more than he got it.

Veronica was older than him, and she was a girl. By that reasoning, she didn’t need to spend as much time with him as she did. Even her friends, when they came over, would say how weird he was for clinging to Veronica, though she shut them down pretty fast.

He tried to stop after that so that Veronica wouldn’t get annoyed with him, but she pulled him aside and told him that she spent time with him because she __wanted__ to. He was her baby brother, and she loved him very much. She loved all her siblings (even Marco, when he dunked a bucket of mud full of wriggly, __alive,__ worms over her head one day as a prank), but she had a special bond with Lance. Maybe it was because they were both middle children. Maybe it was because she liked how genuinely interested he was in the things she did, with none of the pretentious patronization that usually comes with boys his age.

He didn’t care why she liked spending time with him. All he cared about was spending time with the big sister who liked being around him, who he didn’t have to raise his voice at for her to turn her head and see him.

That day, Lance went to school like normal. He sat through the classes like normal. Bored out of his mind in those classes he didn’t care about, sitting on the edge of his seat for those he did care for. He ate lunch in the cafeteria with his classmates, cracked jokes and laughed with the small band of boys he’d befriended. His loud personality, from coming from a loud house and needing to fight for every bit of attention he got in that house, naturally drew people to him. He was like a lighthouse beacon, or a flame, and they were the moths drawn to him.

It felt nice. He just wished it happened more often with his family than with strangers. It wasn’t like he was neglected, definitely not. He knew his parents loved him. It’s just – the attention needed to the attention received ratio was a little skewed in the wrong direction.

He got back home before Veronica and Marco came back from their after-school clubs that day, but after Luis came home from kindergarten. He played football in the garden with his younger brother for a while, trying to avoid doing his homework for as long as possible.

Marco and Veronica finally came home just in time for dinner. Everyone talked about their day, English and Spanish thrown around the table so fast that you’d have to live in that house for a good long while to have a hope of understanding even a smidgen of what was happening. Then their parents chased the kids off to do their homework.

Lance remembers speeding through his homework as fast as he could go. There was an episode of a kids show he was desperate to catch that day, about mechanical lions in space fighting a war against a race of evil purple aliens bent on cosmic domination. He was so obsessed with the story, and the characters, he was practically bouncing in glee when he dragged Veronica over to the family couch where Luis was already settled. Veronica was already thirteen then, almost outgrowing such children’s shows, but Lance was having none of that.

He was pretty ticked off, in prime eight-year-old fashion, when a breaking news report cut through the middle of an Akira-Isamu confrontation that Lance lived for simply because of how astoundingly witty their banter was (also because he fancied himself a cool iteration of Isamu, but he mostly kept that to himself because, hello, he was eight, he knew how to not advertise his childish thoughts because they were not cool).

All traces of ire vanished when he saw the video playing on the TV as the cameraman zoomed in on the scene of a crime.

Veronica was the first to notice that something was wrong with him. She turned to him, only to find him staring at the TV, skin so pale he looked washed out, eyes wider than the alien saucers he’d drawn sometimes. There was a distinct tremble in his hands, something no eight-year-old should have.

“Hermanito?” she said.

He didn’t respond.

“Lance?” she tried again.

No response.

She reached out to touch his shoulder, and something cold slithered down her spine when he turned those big, horrified eyes on her. What was on the video playing was, admittedly, pretty graphic, but not enough to incite a reaction like this. Luis was barely blinking at the screen.

“What’s wrong, Lance?”

“M – my drawing,” he whispered. His voice was shaking.

He looked back at the TV, the video having been sectioned off into a small square while the anchor reported on the news of a woman, a hooker, who’d been murdered gruesomely enough for the adults to think it right to report on it during kid’s cartoon hour.

“That was in my drawing.”

Veronica knew about Lance’s drawings. The whole family did, really. The content of his sketches were not exactly suitable for his age. Their parents thought it was because of all the violence in cartoons, and on the news. They’d taken Lance to a child psychiatrist once, who wasn’t overly concerned about the sketches. Just a phase, apparently. Besides the sketches, Lance was a normal kid. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, anything they needed to worry about.

But this wasn’t something that had ever happened before.

“Show me,” she said.

He did.

Veronica looked like she was going to be sick when she saw the sketch, childish, of course – but still an almost perfect rendition of what she’d seen on the news report not five minutes ago.

One week later, Lance sketched Veronica.

Three months later, Veronica died.


	2. [192]

Lance isn’t in the habit of breaking promises to himself. He isn’t in the habit of breaking promises _at all,_ to anyone. But at seventeen (almost eighteen in three months and six days, and counting), he knows that circumstances arise in which lying is a necessary evil, in which some people simply have to force themselves to endure the sickening twist of guilt in their stomach at knowing they said they wouldn’t do this, but here you are. Doing it.

He really wishes he wasn’t here, doing it.

But a small, sadistic part of him is glad he’s doing it. It hurts, to see this, but it’s a reminder that his family doesn’t hate him for no reason. If that were the case, then…he really wouldn’t have made it for as long as he has. It hurts, to see this, and know that this is why they hate him, but at least it’s for a reason. At least he knows that they don’t hate him _because of him,_ but because of – of _this _.__

The person peering at him from the glowing rectangle he holds in front of his face thinks otherwise, though.

“[Why do you do this?]” Hunk signs as best he can with one hand while the other holds his phone up. He’s at a group study session, but Lance knows if he weren’t, he’d be whining at this point, simply because it’s what works to bring Lance back to him and away from walking the self-destructive path he’s set himself on. “[Really, I’d like to know. For research purposes.]”

Lance rolls his eyes at the flat sarcasm. _[I just want to see, Hunk.]_

“[You know that’s not going to change anything.]” Hunk is so sad. It hurts Lance to know that it’s _him_ making Hunk look like that.

 _[I know.]_ He knows.

“[You promised you wouldn’t.]”

He knows. _[I know.]_

A sigh. “[Can’t you at least tell me where you are?]”

Lance looks up. _[I can see Orion’s belt.]_ He turns the phone skyward for a few moments before turning it back to him.

Hunk has the most deadpan expression Lance has ever seen on the teddy bear of a boy. Even the practised movements of his hands seem to convey the flatness of Hunk’s voice that Lance can just barely make out from one ear as Hunk speaks while he signs. “[That doesn’t tell me anything.]”

Lance’s lips tip up in a smug smile. _[Exactly.]_

Hunk rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face too, even though the worry still lingers in shadows in his warm brown eyes. “[At least call me every once in a while, okay? Just so I know you’re safe.]”

_[Where do you think I am?]_

“[Honestly?]” Hunk squints at the phone. He shrugs. “[Can’t really tell, but I’m picturing some dirty back-alley that has more garbage than human occupants in it.]”

Lance glances around himself, at the avenue he’s walking along, the big, clean houses rising up on either side of him with perfectly manicured lawns. Hunk couldn’t be further from the truth. He looks up when orange-blue-red flashes across his face, to see a large group of cars and vans parked outside one of the houses here. He grips the strap of his messenger bag a little tighter. His sketchbook sits in it like a brick, weighing his shoulder down.

_[Hey Hunk? I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk too you later.]_

Any trace of mirth drops from Hunk’s face like a slab of cement in water. “[Please be careful.]”

_[Always am.]_

He hangs up and puts his phone in his jeans pocket, then shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets, balling them into sweaty, nervous fists as he quickens his pace. The crowd he approaches only seems to grow by the second, people standing around in their nightgowns and pyjamas, their night-time routines interrupted by the sounds of sirens wailing in the night.

Rising up into the sky is the orange glow of a house on fire, water curling in too-thin ribbons in the air as firemen try to stop the inferno from raging.

Lance stands on the fringe of the crowd, silent where everyone else clamours for answers, buzzing with worry and concern and shock. He flicks his hood up, and even though he’s almost immersed in the crowd despite being on the edge of it, so many people there are, just by putting his hood up he feels some level of privacy. He watches the firemen rush about, yelling at one another. He watches the police cordon the area off so that none of the spectators get too close. He watches the paramedics attend to those who have been rescued from the fire.

They are who he focuses on. Once he sees the ambulances, he walks off to the right, to the closest one. Its back doors are wide open, harsh blue light within illuminating the gurney inside. A paramedic is on the ground, attempting to – gently – pull away a woman whose mouth is open wide in a scream that looks ripped from her very soul. She’s kneeling on the ground beside a man who lies totally immobile, face darkened with smoke, skin peeling to show red and white that shouldn’t be seen. The paramedic looks torn between letting the woman come to the realization that the man she’s screaming over is dead, and doing his job of keeping the woman alive.

Bile coats the back of his throat.

Lance pulls out his sketchbook from his messenger bag and flips through the pages to the most recent sketch. He glances around him, to make sure no one is watching him, curiously peering over his shoulder to see what this random teenager is doing here. When he sees no one close enough to do that, he looks down at the drawing. He lifts his blank eyes back up to the paramedic, the live woman, and the dead man. 

Anyone else would be proud of their skills with a pen. In any other circumstance, Lance would boast about how well he captures on paper the images he sees in his head.

Lance snaps the book shut and stuffs it back in his bag.

He doesn’t look back as he walks away from the burning house and the woman that won’t stop screaming.

### ×

The fancy avenue with fancy houses and gleaming fire trucks careening down the road is a long way from where he lives, but he doesn’t mind the long walk. He likes the cold, crisp air that stings his lungs to breathe in. It helps ground him in reality. He’s always liked walking – it’s in that in-between place where his body is active, moving, keeping him from being too still, but easy enough that there’s space in his head to think about everything and nothing.

The air is cool and still, the world sound asleep except for one motorbike that goes roaring past him as he walks home. It’s a nice night out.

It’s past midnight when he gets back, and the house is completely dark. Of course it is – it’s late, and everyone’s already gone to bed. Years of living in this house have taught him to avoid the first step of the porch to keep it from bending inward, like it’s going to break. Years of living here have taught him to toe off his shoes where the others are, but to take them in hand with him instead of leaving them with the others as he creeps his way to the staircase and tiptoes up.

It’s happened often enough that Lance doesn’t shriek in surprise when soft fur and a warm body presses against his leg with a motor-loud purring. He bends down with a wobbly smile, running his hand over the length of Witch’s almost ridiculously luxurious fur, signing a quick hello to the cat. No one else will admit it, but he’s sure Witch recognizes at least some signs. She never seems to expect him to speak, but always reacts when she catches him signing, immediately trotting over to him for a petting and to rub herself all over him and blink slowly at him as she stares at him dead in the eye, as if that’s her way of saying, _Yeah, I know, you love me too, now feed me._

Lance painstakingly makes his way to his bedroom in the attic, as far away from everyone else as they could possibly put him. Witch leads the way; he doesn’t pick her up because she’s one of those who loathes being lovingly cradled in anyone’s hands. That is, unless she’s the one to go to them – then she’ll demand attention very obnoxiously until she gets it. He is forever trying to bribe her into sitting on his lap, because when she kneads his thighs as she purrs in feline bliss, it’s like a free massage. She uses just enough claw that it doesn’t hurt. He’d hire her if she liked money. She only likes to pee on it though.

There’s just enough light filtering in through the windows from the streetlamps outside for him to see Witch’s beautiful long fur, large honey brown and night black spots along her back, clean white fur on her legs, arms and belly. Her head suddenly goes up, alert. Without any warning, she streaks back towards the stairs. Lance watches her jump the last few steps before she disappears into the living room, shrugs, and continues on his way.

It’s at times like this that he truly feels he’s completely deaf, when it’s so silent that even the crickets outside can’t be heard, when nothing moves and the only thing he can hear is his own voice in the bone cage of his skull. He’s only deaf in one ear, but no one knows that, and that’s how he wants it to be, so he keeps pretending that’s how it is – but it’s at times like this that he fools himself into believing that, yeah, the other ear’s gone too, it must be, it’s too quiet otherwise.

The house is so dark that it feels like something’s lurking in every shadow, and with the darkness pressing in on him from every direction, his skin crawls at the thought of something constantly watching him. Of course, he knows that’s not possible. It’s just his way too overactive imagination screwing with him, punishing him for ever thinking it would be a good idea to ease into watching horror movies by starting off with _The Conjuring._

(Hunk being there to offer a consoling arm for him to cling to did nothing to help. The only thing that does help is repeatedly thinking, _cats protect against evil, cats protect against evil._ He’s not sure if it’s true. He doesn’t want to find out)

Lance is only able to breathe when he pulls up the ladder and shuts the trapdoor, quietly, quiet just like everything in this silent house, so that, on the off-chance that someone’s awake, they won’t hear it. He doesn’t want anyone barging in and demanding to know where he’s been. He doesn’t want to try and sign his answer to them and be yelled at for not answering, because they don’t want to try listening to what he says without his voice. He doesn’t want to see the looks on their faces, the irritation, the hate, because he won’t use his voice.

For a moment, Lance just stands there. He stares at the darkness of his room. He knows where everything is, so he doesn’t need a light to see it. He doesn’t _want_ a light to see all the shadows that linger in pieces of the room he’s never been able to bring himself to change since he was a little kid. He doesn’t want to see the reminders of what it was all like before.

_Before._

Lance drops his bag on the floor at the foot of his bed and crawls in, the mattress dipping under his weight and the springs squeaking only a little bit as he shuffles around under the blanket, curling his legs up with his knees pressed to his chest. He pulls the blanket over his head, biting his lip so hard it might bleed, and tries as hard as he can not to cry. He knows it won’t help anything, he knows it won’t stop the sketches from ruining his life. He’s already cried so many times that he should be numb to this by now.

Crying never helped anybody. Maybe for a split second it feels good to let go, but what comes after? What are you supposed to do with the silence left behind by the muffled sobs that break you to pieces every time, until there’s barely enough of you left to glue back together? What are you supposed to do with the hole left in your chest after the pool of tears leaves it?

He turns his face into the pillow when the sob crawling up his throat breaks out past his trembling lips, and cries. He cries until half his pillow is wet with liquid salt. He cries until his chest aches from the force of it. He cries until his eyelids feel swollen and his skin hot to the touch. He cries until his whole body shakes with the effort to keep his voice down, to keep his pain quiet so that no one will come barging in accusing him of looking for pity, of being pathetic.

The more he cries, the louder he wants to get, because he _wants_ someone to see his pain. He _wants_ someone to see it so he can feel like he maybe does have a reason for it. He wants someone to tell him it’s okay for him to feel like this. He wants someone to tell him that he’s not undeserving of it.

He wants to be okay.

But his tears remain as silent as he has been for ten years, because nobody cares if he’s not okay.

His tears are warm on his cheeks. They’re salty on his tongue. They cool and stick to his skin before their glimmer in the faint light from the streetlamps outside fades away long after exhaustion digs its claws deep into him and yanks him into an oblivion he wishes he could stay in forever.

×

Keith is exhausted by the time he pulls over in front of Shiro’s old apartment, above what is now Keith’s new shop. It’s late when he swings a leg over his bike, setting the front wheel proper and pulling his helmet off. It’s past midnight. The street is quiet, all the shops and apartments above them lining the street dark to the world. He sits on the leather seat of his bike, tipping his head back and breathing in the cold midnight air, taking a moment to relish in the silent peace of the night.

He wonders if Shiro is right about this place – if they can really start over anew in this city. He hopes so. He’s tired of moving up and down all the time, of feeling that itchy need to get a move on to something else, then the sinking sense of disappointment every time Shiro calls, only to be told that Keith’s somewhere else already, and no, _sorry, I’m not in the last place anymore for you to visit._ It would be nice to find a place he can call his own, a place he can _feel_ is his.

A place he can call home.

A light flicks on in the apartment he’s in front of, and he looks up just in time to see Shiro’s silhouette come to the window. He grins as he raises his arm in greeting. As long as Shiro’s here, he figures nothing too bad can happen. Maybe he really can make a home here.

That would be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) || [Tumblr for my passion project](https://www.inkusenshoku.tumblr.com) || [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) ||  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/azurehyn)


	3. [191]

Lance leaves the house as reasonably early as he can the Saturday morning after last night’s breakdown. He makes it to his abuela’s apartment on the fringes of New Altea’s central business district a half hour later, at around the time the rest of his family is likely waking up.

His camera – an EOS M100 model with a 24.2-megapixel sensor and dual pixel autofocus – is carefully packed in its special bag hanging over his shoulder, his messenger bag strap slung across his chest and hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his signature favourite jacket sitting loose on his shoulders and his breath misting in front of him thanks to the light drizzle falling from grey skies. Lance’s umbrella is in his bag, an almost permanent accessory that everyone in New Altea never __not__ carries with them thanks to the city’s propensity for raining almost every day, but he decides to leave it in his bag and hurry to the bus.

When he knocks on the door of abuela’s apartment on the top floor, he’s already got a smile ready on his face. As abuela opens the door, she only lets out a mildly startled huff when he lifts his camera and snaps a photo too quick for her to stop it, and then he barrels in and wraps her up in a tight hug, breathing in deep the smell of baking bread and vanilla and chocolate, and a faint whiff of abuela’s favourite jasmine perfume laced through it as well.

Abuela laughs as she pats his shoulder comfortingly. “[Sí, sí, hello to you too, my dear boy,” she hums in Spanish. “It’s good to see you. But if you don’t let me see that picture immediately, I will call on all our ancestors to smite you.]”

He chuckles at that and pulls away, keeping an arm around her waist as he thumbs through the camera and pulls up the picture he just snapped. Contrary to what abuela permanently seems to believe, she does not look like a confused chicken, ostrich, or any other form of flightless bird. Abuela is surprisingly photogenic; the picture was a spur-of-the-moment thing he decided to do only seconds before she opened the door, and it can be seen in the faintly fuzzy borders of the picture, but the image of abuela herself is clear as day.

Her crystal blue eyes are wide, papery lips parted in surprise, but the corners are lifted up in a small, barely there smile set in a caramel-toned face, wrinkled from the pencil lines of age that time has drawn on her, attempting to rob her of her beauty yet failing utterly, because even at seventy-eight, she’s still beautiful. The little uplift at the corners of her lips is a trait he’s inherited from her, one she used to say gave him away every time he did something mischievous that he wasn’t supposed to.

 _[See?]_ he says with a smug grin. _[I knew I get my good looks from somewhere.]_

He feels abuela’s hum as she pats his shoulder. “[Okay, you can keep it.]”

He grins at her as he turns the camera off and packs it back in its bag. _[Why, thank you for the honour, abuela.]_

She gently smacks his cheek in a soft rebuke of his tone, then puts her hands on his shoulders as she peers into his face, and frowns. He wonders what she sees there – he made sure to rub cold water on his eyelids to tone the swelling down from the crying. It’s a trick he accidentally discovered one day and makes use of far more often than he’ll admit.

He lifts his hands, and she lets go to give him room as he says, _[What’s wrong?]_

 _“[I_ should be asking _you_ that,]” she returns, her frown still in place. She cups a gentle hand over his cheek. “[Were you crying?]”

 _[It’s fine.]_ He tries to look as reassuring as possible, smiling big, eyes widened in the hopes they’ll glitter the way they do when he’s really happy, unlikely as he knows it is. __[_ School’s almost out. Studying for finals is kicking my butt. I’m just tired.]_

She doesn’t look convinced. “[Was it…did you sketch something?]”

His heart pulses with a spike of pain, and in a single moment he can remember every hurtful word his ‘family’ have thrown at him about his ‘ability’, each like an arrow with unerring aim finding its home in his chest, metal tips dipped in poison.

_[It’s fine, abuela. It’s just finals.]_

He’s not sure she believes him. Her pale blue eyes peer at him silent for a long moment. Then she nods slowly, accepting his answer. He doesn’t need to feel guilty about it because he’s not lying. Technically.

She doesn’t look like she believes him. In fact, Lance is expecting her to just rap him upside the head for trying to wiggle out of saying the undeniable truth, because she just isn’t the type to let people fester in their problems instead of facing them, especially because she cares about them.

But she doesn’t.

Because she’s still his abuela, and she knows how much this ‘ability’ has made him suffer.

“[How long can you stay?]” she asks, moving the conversation to safer topics. She draws him in to the narrow hallway and shuts the door behind them, leading him into the small apartment she lives in.

Her apartment is small, but quite comfortable. There’s a bedroom at the end of the long hall on the right, bathroom through a door directly across from the bedroom, and kitchenette that connects directly to the small living room that’s just wide enough to walk between a TV, a bookshelf he helped abuela fit across the entire length of the east wall, two second-hand but comfortable couches with a matching armchair – and windows. Lots of windows. Abuela loves them; she can pass a whole day by just looking out at them, and this apartment’s view is beautiful enough to warrant it, Mami made sure of that when she picked it for abuela.

She picks up the TV remote and switches the television off, cutting through a news report or other that had been running in the background before she makes her way to the kitchen with Lance in tow.

 _[Not very long,]_ he replies, pulling his lips down in an exaggerated pout. _[I have to get to work in an hour.]_

“Aish, [you’ll be fine,]” she pats his shoulder in a motion that is at once reprimanding and consoling. “[Oh, I wanted to ask – you know what university you want to go to yet?]”

 _[I’m thinking Arus,]_ he says after a short pause as abuela puts the kettle on. _[They have a really good arts program, and some great internship opportunities for undergrads, like for these two major boutique brands, Atelier and Chordanne, that are amazing and have big branches in the city…]_

Abuela smiles indulgently as Lance finds himself rambling about the research he’s done for the different universities located in Altea. Altea isn’t a particularly large country, not like America or Russia, but it’s known worldwide for its stellar education programs and opportunities, with thousands of international students flying in just for that, and the vibrancy of all the tourist attractions as well. New Altea in particular, the second largest city in the country, holds most of the best universities in the country, which is probably what brings in so much of the city’s economy.

He logically knows he doesn’t need to worry about his grades for getting into university, because complain as he may about studying all the time, he does it and he gets the grades to prove it, and his extracurriculars aren’t that bad either. He does photography for simple fun and because he likes it, and it helped a lot with gaining extra credit. But financially…

Abuela frowns as she pours him a cup of steaming green tea and sets it in front of him as he sits on his favourite rickety chair by the small second-hand dining table. He valiantly tries not to make a face at the tea. He hates the stuff, but he sips at it anyway because abuela always harps on his coffee addiction and how it’ll kill him one day, and no grandson of hers is going to go out because of more caffeine that blood in their veins.

He’s still not entirely sure if she’s caught onto the fact that he sips slowly enough at it that he’s barely halfway done before he leaves. She hasn’t said anything about it so far. Maybe she has, maybe she hasn’t.

“[Your father is not going to pay for you?]” she asks. She looks absolutely befuddled by that. “[I thought he would. You’re still his son.]” She says this fiercely, as if that irrefutable truth is something that needs to be drilled into his head, as if it’s ever made any difference that he is his father’s son.

 _[It’s not that he won’t,]_ he replies in slow, thoughtful signs, wondering how to phrase it without making his father sound like an asshole…even though he kind of is. Still, he’s the one who pays Lance’s school fees and keeps a roof over his head and food in the fridge for Lance to sneakily eat when he does his utmost to avoid sitting at the dinner table with the rest of the ‘family’.

Despite the obvious lack of large funds abuela lives on – from the slightly ratty curtains, the number of tears in the couches, the TV screen with a crack in the top-left corner, the wallpaper worn through in a few places – his father’s job as chief prosecutor, putting away criminals being defended by slick and sly lawyers, means he earns well enough to send all his children to university. Marco’s earning his Masters in astrophysics, while Luis is still in the middle of high school, and Lance set to be done with the actual hell that is Garrison High in less than two months. For his father, money isn’t exactly an issue.

Sometimes, when he slips, when he forgets, he wonders why his father doesn’t help out abuela, his own mother, why he would just leave her to live like this when he can help her after she spent her whole life raising him and his two sisters, Lance’s aunts. All Lance has to do is remember that it’s because of him that his father does this.

He tries not to think about it because he knows there’s really nothing he can do about it, but he still does, and it hurts every time.

 _[I’m just…]_  he pauses, but ploughs on because if anyone’s going to understand, abuela will. She always has. He can trust her. _[I don’t want to have to depend on him more than I need to. I’m going to try out for every scholarship I can so that he can’t use him paying my tuition fees as something else to lord over me.]_

Abuela looks sad at that, but she doesn’t try to defend her son. Instead, she taps his cheek in a soft pat and asks, “[Does your mother know?]”

He shakes his head. _[No, but please don’t tell her. I want to tell her myself if I do get something.]_

She nods. “[Don’t worry, I won’t. Your abuela knows how to keep a secret.]” She perks up when a ding sounds through the kitchen.

Years of practice has made it easy for Lance not to react to the faint sound, even though he figures it’s probably not that faint at all, it’s just like that for him.

She turns back to him with a stern look in her eye. “[Now, drink up your tea, and let me give you a muffin that’s just finished baking. You’re too skinny, my dear, too, too skinny.]”

She shakes her head morosely as she patters around the kitchen, and Lance wrinkles his nose as he dutifully gulps a mouthful of tea, no longer quite so hot anymore. Then he puts it down and prays abuela won’t notice him not drinking anymore. He’s already gone way past his quota of green tea for the day. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, unlocking it with a sinking pit in his stomach when he sees who it’s from.

 ** **Luis (05:29):**** yo where tf are you

 ** **Lance (05:29):**** Out.

 ** **Luis (05:30):**** don’t be a smartass, Mami’s worried about you

The frown on his face smooths out a little at that. He’d been in such a hurry to leave that he forgot to tell Mami where he was going.

 ** **Lance (05:30):**** Going to work. I’ll be back later.

 ** **Luis (05:31):**** whatever

 ** **Luis (05:31):**** call her and tell her your dumbass is alive so she’ll stop nagging

 ** **Lance (05:31):**** Why isn’t she asking?

 ** **Luis (05:31):**** papa

Lance purses his lips and puts his phone away just as abuela sets the hot, mouthwatering muffin in front of him on a little saucer. He’ll call Mami later.

“[Eat.]” Abuela says. Her tone brooks no argument.

None come from him – he snuck out of the house ridiculously early, and didn’t want to risk waking anyone up by fixing something for himself. He’d figured he’d just buy something from the coffee shop he planned to stop by after visiting abuela, but hey, this beautiful muffin means he doesn’t have to spend money buying another one at the coffee shop.

His father may be a high-rise lawyer, and there may be a bank account with a monthly allowance put in it by his father, but that doesn’t mean he wants to spend any of it. He doesn’t want to __touch__ any of it; it’s why he works a part-time job, so he can have his own money to spend instead of his father’s.

It gives him a quietly smug sort of satisfaction whenever his father mildly berates Luis for his obscene expenditure of his allowance, but never says a word about Lance’s because there is nothing to say.

Lance inhales the delectable muffin in .5 seconds, and abuela laughs at him when he groans in pure taste bud bliss. It’s been an ongoing battle trying to decide who bakes better; Hunk, or abuela. Every time he eats anything abuela’s baked, he’s convinced that yeah, Hunk’s good, but maybe he’s better at cooking foods than baking. Then he’d eat something Hunk baked and be all confused again because his chocolate-chip cookies _are actual heaven on Earth._

Abuela puts another muffin on the saucer, and Lance goes through this one slower, taking his time with it as he idly watches abuela set up the next tray to go in the oven. She smacks his itchy fingers with her ever-ready ladle when he tries to sneakily finger-scoop some of the sugary dough still in the mixing bowl, and he pouts but happily returns to the muffin he’s been legally given. By the time he’s done with the muffin, it’s time to leave so that he won’t be late to work.

Lance gives abuela another tight hug, relishing in the few long moments of contact as much as he can, because knowing what a hug feels like but not getting one enough sits like an ache in his chest. Then he heads out the door, leaving his beloved grandmother to continue on her baking with a promise to stop by later that day for more muffins.

Lance gets to the narrow hallway leading to the entrance, then stops. He backtracks and peers around the wall to make sure abuela’s really in the kitchen and not hovering over his shoulder – she is. She moves slowly but surely around in the small space, fixing herself up a meal now that she’s satisfied her grandson isn’t running on an empty stomach as she waits for the rest of the muffins to finish up in the oven. His heart squeezes tight at the sight of his grandmother happily going about her own way, as if she never gives a thought to how she ended up in this tiny apartment instead of living with the rest of the family like she used to, as if it’s not his fault.

Shaking his head off those thoughts, he quickly turns back to the living room and digs out a plain white envelope from his bag. He carefully puts it on the arm of abuela’s favourite armchair, set in front of the window that overlooks the soaring trees of the park the apartment building is built next to. Lance hurries away and out the door, stomping down the flight of stairs fast as he can to avoid the possibility of abuela noticing the envelope and hollering him back up to return it.

(Although, the few times she’s done that, he pretended to not hear her. He could always just do it again, but he doesn't because abuela is sharper than a knife, and she might figure out he can hear a little from one ear.)

The first few times he tried to give her the money he earned from his part-time job, she’d pushed it right back into his confused hands and refused it, saying he needed it more than her, and that what Mami is able to give her is more than enough. Lance knows it’s not. Mami isn’t able to give much because the rent for the apartment eats up a lot already, and she can’t use more than she already is because then Papa will notice the sizeable dent in the bank account, and god knows what he’d do if he finds out Mami’s been going behind his back and helping abuela when he’d cut her off so harshly years ago.

So Lance got creative, and started leaving the envelopes with cash in obvious places around the apartment just before he left. Abuela noticed, and when she confronted him about it, he just shrugged and said, _[I don’t know what you’re talking about.]_

She, begrudgingly, accepted that.

### ×

The sun is just peeking over the tops of the low-level buildings that make up most of the area that sits on the edges of the hub of town. People are out and about on the streets, but it still feels sleepy considering it’s barely 06.30 AM. Despite that, cars drive past in a steady stream headed for the heart of the city, ready for the day to begin.

Lance takes the scenic route on his way, even if there isn’t much to see with most of the trees having shed their leaves in preparation for winter, and the grass gaining a little bit of a bluish tinge to it. Lance’s fingers curl and unfurl in the pockets of his jackets as he makes his way, and he wonders if he should start wearing gloves when he goes out now.

The Atlas Café is one of the places he feels safest, and a nearly indiscernible tight knot of tension unwinds deep inside him when he sees its logo; a large spaceship hovering in clouds, with the café’s name engraved into the clouds directly above the ship. It’s an odd logo for a coffee shop, but it’s become so familiar that Lance barely glances twice at it.

It’s a warm and cosy place, with none of the annoying glass walls/window things other coffee shops are built with to display the people inside enjoying their coffees like live advertisements in animate mannequin form. Instead, it’s built into a brick building, with a couple apartment floors above it. The inside of the café is themed in warm tones, with a number of circular tables for two inside the café itself, a row of four six-seater booths in warm reds towards the back of the café, and five bean-bags grouped close together on the left side of the café while a couch is pushed up against the dull red brick wall on the right side that circle low-legged tables suitable for the couches.

The café is owned by one of the few people Lance can wholeheartedly enjoy being around without having to constantly filter and check himself, without having to worry that no one will understand anything he’s saying because he doesn’t speak in any way other than with his hands. The café is on a street full of other stores, mostly boutiques and one store that sells music records, and he loves to go window shopping and people-watching as he walks to the café, so that’s just an added bonus.

As he always does, Lance stands at the edge of the sidewalk and pulls out his camera, lining it up and taking a picture of the front of the café, standing next to the streetlight, with the morning sun starting to peek above the buildings behind him, soft rays of light hitting the café windows just right to make the whole place look like it’s sparkling. He likes taking a photo of the café every day and putting them in a special folder in his laptop, admiring how different it can look each day simply because of the miniscule differences in position of the sun’s light hitting it, despite how he always makes sure to stand in the exact same spot every single day.

When he’s done with that, he packs his camera away and spins through the shop with the brightest smile gracing his face, going up to the counter and grinning as he greets Adam with a quick hello sign. He’s just finishing up giving the front counter one last clean through before the café officially opens at 07.00 AM. When Adam smiles back, light brown eyes lighting up, and Lance sees its genuine and not a fake one that he’s spied Adam give irritating customers before, he feels like he’s accomplished something great. Sure, it’s just a smile, but it still means something. Lance always loves it when he can make someone smile, even if he has to act like an idiot for it to happen.

Adam is as clean-cut and handsome as he always is. His ash brown hair is growing out a little, just brushing a bit past his nape, but in Lance’s opinion it only makes him look cooler, his wireless frame glass pushed up over his hair. He’s in a pair of visibly old but comfy jeans and a white-and-black striped shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, an apron over it with the café’s logo printed in the centre.

“[Hey Lance,]” Adam says, smile not dimming in the least. “[You’re here early.]” He glances at the wall meaningfully.

Lance shrugs. _[What can I say, I couldn’t wait to see my favourite handsome gentleman.]_

Adam lifts an eyebrow. “[Oh? And there are others, are there?]”

 _[Don’t be greedy, Adam,]_  he winks as he gestures up and down his body before shooting finger guns at him. _[There’s plenty of me to go around.]_

Adam laughs, and for a split second Lance feels a stab of self-pity that he can’t hear it in its entirety. He’s heard it before, from the ear that still hears and when he was sitting close by on that side. He always feels like this when people laugh; it’s been years since he went deaf, and its years he’s had to get used to it, but the little sinking dip in his stomach still happens every time.

He wonders if there’ll ever be a day when that feeling doesn't make itself known.

Adam gestures under his eyes. “[Have you been sleeping enough? You look tired.]”

He smiles thinly. _[One word: finals.]_

Adam winces understandingly. “[Same to go?”] he asks, already making his way backwards to the coffee maker.

He nods and bats his eyelashes at him. _[You know me so well,]_

Adam rolls his eyes as he flips his glasses down to settle on his nose. “[Go flip the sign for me while I make your death in a cup, you shameless flirt.]” He orders.

Lance salutes him as he turns to make his usual order of an Americano with a dash of milk and hazelnut syrup, and enough sugar in it to give a water buffalo a heart attack. Lance saunters over to the door and flips the sign on the door from CLOSED to WELCOME, but before he turns back, movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention. He peers through the glass of the door to see the previously empty room across the street being not so empty anymore. There’s a light inside, and he thinks he vaguely sees someone (or is that two someone’s?) moving around. He walks backwards to the counter and when his back bumps into the corner of it, he props his arms on it and remains fixedly staring through the door, squinting as he tries to make out who’s in there, but they’re way too far away.

A tap on his shoulder has him spinning around to face Adam holding his large cup of coffee. He closes his eyes reverently, breathing in deep the heavenly smell. When he opens his eyes again and makes grabby hands for the coffee, Adam laughs again as he hands it to him with a smile that looks something like the one abuela gives him one he devours what she’s cooked for him. He takes one sip, then two, then three, before carefully setting the to-go cup on the counter and pulling out his wallet to pay. Before Adam goes to the cash register, he waves his hand for his attention.

 _[Did someone move in to Lotor’s old place?]_ he asks.

Lotor, Allura’s long-time boyfriend, had moved his famously well-known jewellery store, Quintessence Jewels, deeper into the city a month ago and had put this place, his old store, up for sale. He still comes by often enough that it’s like he barely moved at all, claiming Adam’s coffee to be the only one he can drink in the whole city (and also, Allura lives down the street, and poised as the two may be, they’re absolutely smitten with each other). Has someone rented the space already? It’s a good spot, after all.

Adam’s eyes flicker past him before returning. There’s a faint rosiness dusting his cheeks. Lance lifts an eyebrow. That’s interesting.

“Oh, that. Yeah, it’s a new shop,” he says, making sure he’s facing him so he can read his lips while he rings up the order. “Or it’s going to be, they’re not open yet. Owned by one of two brothers, though they both seem to be around to getting it ready.”

Oh, that’s __very__ interesting.

 _[Oh?]_ he says when Adam brings him his receipt. _[Two brothers, huh?]_

He scowls at him. The fires burning in his cheeks can’t get any brighter, Lance thinks. “[Shut up.]”

 _[There’s no need to be shy,]_ he grins rakishly. _[You’re a handsome young man in his prime.]_

He was wrong. That blush is about to go supernova.

“[You sound like my mother.]” Adam retorts flatly, aggressively shaking his receipt and change in his face. “[My aged and highly proper mother, might I add.]”

_[Uh-huh. They been in yet?]_

“Yes!” he exclaims. Lance a little startled by the exuberance of his face at the outburst until he continues with, “[They moved in last week, and can you believe it, I’ve never been here when they came over. It’s ridiculous. It’s always Sophie or Rizavi or James here when they come in. I don’t understand it. I own this shop!]”

Lance laughs at that and asks, _[So what’s Rizavi’s verdict?]_

He’s more than a little wary of Sophie’s taste in men – he’s not one to judge, exactly, especially because Sophie’s a cool girl, but the guys she’s introduced as her boyfriends in the past were decidedly rough-looking. To say the least.

Rizavi’s a little saner and safer. Especially considering she’s dating James, one of the other full-time workers here, and he’s got a heart of gold. He can be a little curt and borderline mean as fuck, but at the same time, he only gets like that if it’s for a reason. Example; jackass customers attempting to get with his girlfriend when she’s expressly made clear she’s not available.

“[She says the older one looks like a Japanese god with the manners of an English gentlemen and the personality of a puppy.]”

His eyebrows shoot up, and Adam nods in agreement. Rizavi’s a tough judge, and if she passes a comment like that about someone, it means they’re _good _.__

“[And the younger one looks on the more emo side and permanently pissed off at the entire world and is barely human before his morning coffee – ]” he wrinkles his nose at that, and Adam flicks his forehead chidingly. “[But he’s still cute, though.]”

 _ _[_ Damn, you got you some hot neighbours, boy.] _‘Still cute’ in Rizavi’s book usually means ‘drop dead gorgeous’ in Lance’s.

He sighs heavily. “[Neighbours I haven’t _met_ yet. I can’t even fault them for not stopping by for a visit since it looks like they work night and day to get the new shop up.]”

 _[Is that why you’re in early today? Hoping to catch a little peek for yourself this time?]_ Adam usually entrusts the opening of the shop to Sophie, but so far as he can see, only Adam’s around this early.

Before he can reply, Adam’s eyes flick to the door. He immediately dons his professional a-customer-is-within-my-vicinity-I-must-be-cordial-at-all-times face, and though the blush goes down some, there’s still evidence of it trailing over his cheekbones.

Lance shifts to the side at the same time as he looks back to see who the new customer is – and his jaw nearly hits the floor.

The first thing Lance notices – after, of course, taking note of how much space the dude’s shoulders take in his jacket, the _chest _,__ the trim waist, the little over six-foot height, and the powerful legs encased in fitting jeans – is the scar across the upper bridge of the man’s nose. He’s hair is black and styled in an undercut, but there’s a tuft of hair at the forefront that’s white as snow, though Lance isn’t sure if it’s dyed or not.

His face is chiselled – he definitely looks like some sort of Japanese god given mortal form, good on you Rizavi for getting that right down to the T – and the scar doesn’t detriment from it at all. If anything, the thin slice of pink only seems to call attention the stormy grey of his eyes, almost exactly that shade that Lance loves to admire minutes before the skies crack open and release torrents of rain.

And…is that eyeliner? Who manages winged eyeliner that perfectly? _This_ early in the morning, too? In what reality is that fair? It looks so effortless that Lance struggles not to be a weirdo and peer closer at his face to try and see if that’s actual killer wings or if the guy’s just blessed enough to look that naturally good.

This dude is muscled,too _ _.__ Not like, grossly so, but in a very obviously pleasing to the eye. Or at least as much as Lance is able to make out. He’s wearing jeans that fit obviously sculpted legs, gloves covering his hands, and his black leather jacket fits in just the right way to show that he works out quite regularly at the gym.

 _Stop checking out the random stranger,_ he scolds himself.

To distract himself, he instead watches the man greeting Adam with a somewhat strained smile on his face – he looks tired, actually – and ordering two coffees to go, one espresso but without the killer dosage of sugar, and another coffee with cream. The man rocks back on his heels with his hands in his jacket pockets as he carefully regards the selection of pastries and baked goods on view, then adds one bagel and two brownies to his order. Adam remains smiling brightly through it all, the perfect employee serving a customer. He’d probably be employee of the month if he didn’t actually own the establishment already.

Then the man abruptly turns to him as Adam gets his order put together, and Lance feels like he’s been caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, even though he’s not done anything wrong. The man has a vaguely ticked off look on his face that has something quailing in Lance’s stomach as he says, “Is something wrong?”

Lance blinks stupidly at him. What? _Is_  something wrong? He doesn’t know?

Noticing Lance’s confusion, the man reiterates, “Is there something wrong? You’re staring at me.”

Lance’s first instinct is to sign his explanation for why he was staring, that he always just automatically looks at people’s lips to understand what they’re saying (he may be able to hear through one ear, but it’s not good at all. His deafness affects both ears, just one slightly less than the other), but his hands hover helplessly mid-air when he realizes that this guy might actually get more pissed if Lance suddenly starts gesturing at him. It’s happened enough times for Lance to know it is never a good idea to sign at someone you don’t know. One time, somebody actually threw their orange juice in his face because they thought he was insulting them when he was just trying to explain something to them.

But he can’t verbally explain any of that to this man either – he doesn’t speak at all, not even to his own family, never mind strangers. Sometimes he thinks he’s completely forgotten how to. His throat squeezes tight, and he tries swallowing around the sudden appearance of a tennis ball lodged in it. What does he do now? He doesn’t want this man to think he’s being a rude jackass by staring, but he doesn’t know how to fucking _communicate_ that. Panic squeezes its taloned grip around his heart – but before any more misunderstanding can occur, Adam speaks up.

“[He’s lip-reading,]” he says as he puts his order on the counter, signing for Lance’s benefit as he fixes the man with a completely calm face. He almost looks like he’s daring the man to question Adam and make this a big deal. “[Lance is hard of hearing. It’s automatic for him to do it.]”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, and any trace of irritation vanishes from his face. He half-turns back to Lance and says, “[Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.]”

Lance is floored.

What, exactly, are the odds of encountering a total stranger who knows ASL? And this guy is signing with the practised fluidity that speaks to years of it. Adam looks just as baffled as him, blinking rapidly at him. It’s not as if deaf people in Altea is a rare phenomenon, but it’s not exactly like it’s easy to just bump into someone who’s deaf.

Lance still must look bewildered, because the man hurries to add, “[Sorry if I came across rude. My brother and I had a disagreement before I came over here. I’m Takashi Shirogane, but most people call me Shiro.]” He sticks out his hand, and Lance manages to shake the offered hand as societal decorum dictates without looking like a spastic fool. He notices something a little off about the grip, a little hard – not in how he holds Lance’s hand, but in texture, as if there’s metal under the glove instead of skin. “[I’m helping my brother set up his bookstore across the street from here. I’ve got a dojo around the corner too.]”

Lance stares blankly at him. Oh. _Oh _.__ This is one of the two brothers. Hot __damn.__ If one looks like this, what does the other brother look like? Are they twins? Dear god, imagine that. Two of them, identical – _Jesus _.__  And he owns a _dojo?_ Lord have mercy.

 _[You know ASL?]_ he asks hesitantly, his heart fluttering a bit in his ribcage.

And no, it’s not because this guy’s nice to look at; he just gets excited whenever he meets someone who knows sign language. There are really only four people he can have full conversations with, and that’s mostly only if it’s one-on one. He never went to any school for the deaf, so he rarely actually gets to meet people who speak in a way he does. The relief that sweeps through him like a gust of warm wind that nearly melts him on the spot. If there’s anything he hates more than judgemental assholes, it’s confrontation. Even the very idea of facing it can sometimes have him just totally freezing up, mind going blank.

Takashi – Shiro – smiles as he nods enthusiastically. “[Yeah, one of my old friends from the army was hard of hearing, so I learned and kept practising over the years. It’s no big deal.]”

Uh, yes it is. Yes, _it is _.__ Lance’s own family refuse to learn it for him – not counting abuela and Marco, and the remarkably little Mami’s learned – and Shiro did it for a friend. Maybe it’s not a big deal for him, but it is for Lance.

The army (and dojo) part explains why Shiro’s so fit. Maybe Lance should take a hint and do more workout than walking everywhere. Although, Altea has a mandatory army enlistment for men (and optional for women) by the age of twenty-nine since Altea borders Galra. There’s been a peace treaty in place for decades since World War II that keeps both countries from all-out war, and things are relatively friendly now, but there’s still tensions sometimes along the border. Maybe he’ll just wait until he joins the army later on.

As soon as he glances at Adam, his eyes light up in unholy glee – boy looks half-way gone already, now that Shiro’s proven to be not an asshole, but a seemingly good guy who’s just had a rough morning. This will be _fun _.__

 _[Well,]_ Lance says slowly, gears turning as he already pairs Adam next to Shiro and nearly swoons at the image – they’d look _so good_ together. __[_ The name’s Lance McClain, and the cute mute over here is Adam, owner of _the _best coffee shop in the whole city. Maybe country.]_

Adam’s blush makes a comeback, but he doesn’t reprimand Lance as he honestly half-expects him to as he smiles at Shiro and shakes his proffered hand. Lance’s smirk broadens to a smug grin when he sees a very faint echo of a blush on Shiro’s cheeks as well.

 _Oh my god, yaass, this looks mutual,_ he thinks gleefully.

“[Nice to meet you both,]” Shiro says. “[Are you two related, by any chance? You look like brothers.]”

His heart gives a weak little twinge at that. It’s not the first time he and Adam have been called siblings – he thinks it’s mostly because they have skin tones that are almost the same shade, like coffee mixed in with milk, and they share the same lean body type and high cheekbones. Still, the question always brings his mood down a little, always has him feeling guilty for being around people who make him feel happy – always has him feeling guilty for being happy to begin with – because it always reminds him of Veronica, of the sibling he has.

Had.

 _[Ah, the flattery,]_  Lance says, shoving the overflowing chest of hurt deep, deep inside. His sketchbook sits like a stone weighing his shoulder down where his bag hands from. _[But alas, I could never compare. We’re friends, no worries.]_

A part of him wonders if Shiro catches on to how specifically he ascertains that he and Adam are just friends when a pleasantly surprised light steals into his grey eyes.

“[Come on, stop it, Lance,]” Adam chides. “[You should give yourself some credit.]”

Lance puts a dramatic hand to his heart before saying, _[Pretty much anyone who stands next to you pales in comparison, my dear sir.]_

Shiro chuckles. “[He’s not wrong.]”

Lance sees babies in the near future as the room lights up with Adam’s smile.

He glances at the time on his watch, and his heart nearly flops over dead. He’s going to be late if he doesn’t book it out of here in the next five seconds.

 _[Much as I’d love to stay and chat, I’ve gotta split,]_ he says, meaning every word of it – again, Lance doesn’t meet a lot of people he can actually converse with, and takes every chance he can get to see if anything’ll come out of it – as he starts walking backwards towards the door.

“[It was nice meeting you, Lance.]” Shiro answers with a bright smile. He looks like he could snap Lance in half, but his personality so far more than makes up for the intimidation of the muscle. “[See you around?]”

_[I basically live here, the coffee’s that good, so yeah, see you around. And I’ll definitely come check out your brother’s store, too.] For the books, of course._

And to see if Brother #2 is as hot as Brother #1.

But mostly for the books. Books are cool. He once read somewhere that old swords, even two-thousand-year-old ones, leak the blood of those they’d killed when you start wiping the rust off. That’s gruesome but cool, okay? You won’t find out something like that just anywhere. Of course, there’s the internet, but it takes away the satisfaction of reading such random bits of information from something you can feel the weight of in your hands.

See? He’s going for the books. Definitely. No question about it.

Adam looks like he’s about to yank him back to help him because, cute as he is, he hasn’t dated much and therefore sort of flounders like a fish out of water when hot guys he’s even remotely attracted to are around. Shiro, though – he’s looking at Lance, but his entire body is facing Adam.

_Interesting _.__

“[Thanks,]” Shiro says with another smile bright enough to potentially blind someone. “[My brother opens next week on Monday, after the coming one.]”

Lance flashes him his trademark finger guns as he pushes the entrance door open, mentally preparing himself to sprint down the street to make it to work. _[I’ll save the date. Bye Adam!]_

He doesn’t wait to see Adam’s goodbye as he turns, securely cradling his precious cup of coffee to his chest, and books it as fast as he can to the store he works at, praying he’ll make it before the clock hits 06.45 AM.

### ×

He makes it to The Castle’s Antiquities Emporium – or just The Castle, because that’s a bit of a mouthful – with exactly two minutes and thirty-four seconds to spare – but of course, because his boss is who he is, Lance doesn’t make it in time to finally beat him at Who Gets Into Work Earlier Than The Other. Lance isn’t even sure when it became a competition – it just did, active over the weekends and during the summer break when Lance doesn’t need to be at school instead of work and can come in the morning instead of the afternoon.

Coran is reading a newspaper when Lance blows into the store with all the force of a tame hurricane, coffee still expertly secured in his hands. He comes to a dead stop at the door when he sees Coran at the front desk of the store, his own mug of home-brewed green tea (blegh) set beside him as the man himself continues to read the paper, piles of miscellaneous and old objects strewn about him with cleaning rags fluttered here and there. As Lance gapes at him, Coran keeps his eyes on the paper as he flamboyantly shakes it out, a tiny smile barely visible behind the man’s possibly sentient bushy moustache as he settles down again.

Lance makes his way to the desk, stands directly in front of Coran’s line of sight – Coran doing that thing where he peers at Lance over the top of the newspaper without lowering it, simply for dramatic effect, because Coran is as dramatic as Lance is – and carefully sets his coffee on the table.

 _[This is unfair.]_ He declares.

Coran lifts a supercilious eyebrow. For all the extravagance of his appearance – the bright orange hair, perfectly styled moustache, and clothing that somehow looks good out of an 80’s styled movie, all complete with suspenders and a maroon bowtie – he can look intimidating when he wants to.

Then all that intimidation is flushed down the drain as Coran breaks into a wide smile and replies, “[Lance, lad, you should know you’re never going to win. I live upstairs.]”

Lance pouts like a temperamental child and crosses his arms over his chest. _[Exactly. You have unfair advantage.]_

Coran rolls his eyes as he folds the newspaper on the lowered desk behind the counter where a computer and cash register sits as well and walks around the table to wrap Lance up in a hug that he positively melts into. He’s never said anything to anyone, and Hunk only knows because he’s his best friend and knows by default what goes on in the McClain household, but Coran always seems to know that Lance is approaching something to touch-starved, and so hugs the boy as often as he can. Which includes welcome hugs like this when Lance comes in for his shift.

“[Everything okay?]” Coran asks when he steps back, reaching over the counter to pick up his mug and take a sip.

Lance nods, though he wonders if he really looks so bad after last night. Everyone’s asking him that today. Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped his morning beauty routine.

 _[It’s cool, just finals,]_ Lance shrugs. _[You know how it is.]_

Coran looks concerned. “[Shouldn’t you be studying for them right now? It’s all right, you can get back to your normal shift’s schedule once they’re over and done with. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you don’t do well.]”

Lance shakes his head hurriedly. Coming to work is like coming home. It’s not just about earning the money – this place is his safe haven. Even with finals looming in two weeks, he will keep coming in to work until the very last day.

(Okay maybe like until two or three days before, because yeah he kinda does need to do well on them.)

Besides, there’s something about being surrounded by things decades older than he is. Sometimes, he likes to fool himself into thinking that his problems are nothing compared to the trials and tribulations the things sold in this store have faced since long before he was born. He’s one of those who believes objects can imprint events that they witness. Call him weird or loony for it, it’s just how he is, part of why he likes taking pictures of things so much.

(The impression may or may not have been influenced by abuela’s firm belief in the same. She’s very persuasive.)

 _[I’m going to study later with Hunk and Pidge,]_ he answers. _[If I have them on my side, there’s no way I’ll fail.]_ He hopes. _[They’re certifiable geniuses.]_

Coran ruffles Lance’s hair with an affectionate look in his eye. “[Don’t sell yourself short either, Lance. You’re a remarkably talented young man in your own right. By the way, the sundress you made for Allura is simply beautiful. She wore it yesterday and several customers remarked on it as well.]”

Lance smiles, a little bashfully. Lance likes photography, but his true passion is fashion, making clothes for people he loves and when the creative inspiration hits. He’s not entirely sure when he got into it, considering he’s never been interested in paying attention to what he wears himself beyond look presentable enough to walk out of the house and not look like a hobo. He just started idly drawing harmless sketches of clothes he pictured Allura would look nice in, then abuela, then Mami, and it spiralled until he bought a sketchbook entirely dedicated to his fashion art designs and started bringing them to life when he got a sewing machine and began building an arsenal of materials he used to do it.

And taking pictures of clothes? It’s oddly fun, people in them and not.

 _[Thanks,]_ he says. He’s pretty sure those customers commented on it because Allura herself is beautiful enough to overshadow everything else. _ _[_ I’m glad she likes it. Where’s ’Llura, by the way?]_

“[Still asleep, I’m afraid,]” Coran answers. “[She stayed up all night reading the book you recommended her.]”

 _[The Monstrumologist?]_ he nods and Lance grins. He may not be able to handle watching horror, but reading it? Entirely different story (Duma Key still gives him nightmares though). __[_ I mean, sleep is important, but. That book is good.]_

“[I shall definitely give it a read as well, then. It’s got an interesting title, don’t you think?]” he spreads his hands out like he’s showing off a large billboard or something. “[‘The Monstrumologist’. Sounds like just my cup of tea.]”

_[It’s Young Adult.]_

“[Are you calling me old?]” Coran asks incredulously, but there’s a humorous glint in his eye.

 _[No, no way,]_ Lance scoffs. _[Just that the main protagonist, Will Henry, starts off at thirteen.]_

“[That’s the same age you were when we met, isn’t it?]” he muses fondly. “[Very well, I shall read it soon.]”

Lance grins. _[Cool. Oh hey, do you want me to make you a patterned bowtie?]_ he eyes the one Coran is wearing in a comically critical manner. _[I think you’d look good with blue and purple.]_

Coran nods eagerly. “[Oh definitely, definitely. And who knows, maybe we can start selling some of your works here, too. We shall talk more about it, but only _after_ your exams.]” Lance rolls his eyes and nods at Coran’s stern look. “[Good. Right then, since you’re here bright and early, let’s get to work before we open shop, shall we?]”

The rest of his four-hour shift goes by relatively quietly. Coran’s antiques store has a large enough selection of items that there’s always a steady stream of patrons and walk-in customers who come in, either to browse out of curiosity or buy something. Lance doesn’t usually interact directly with the customers – Coran full-time employs Kinkade and Leifsdotr for that, but they always rely on Lance to know exactly where this or that item the customer is looking for is, so they tag-team whenever a customer comes in with a specific purchase in mind. That way, Lance doesn’t have to deal with any potential assholes.

Most of Lance’s actual work involves arranging the numerous objects and cleaning the metals and jewellery pieces, putting them in their designated places on the shelves and cleaning them of any dust that might have piled on them, taking inventory of the old stock and whatever new stock Coran and Allura bring in, and taking carefully orchestrated, Insta-worthy pictures of the old relics for the store’s social media pages that Allura handles. Lance isn’t sure if it’s just that people really like old things, or Allura’s just really good at anything social media related, but a number of their patrons came to the store from Instagram and Facebook, so he’s not complaining.

Lance also may or may not walk around on his break until he ‘accidentally’ sees that Shiro’s dojo is, quite literally, three stores down from Coran’s. Small world, huh.

Hunk texts him towards the end of his shift as he’s packing away his work uniform into his bag, carefully avoiding looking at the sketchbook he carries around everywhere despite desperately wishing he didn’t have to.

 ** **Hunk (10:56):**** I’m hoping you made it back home safe and I’m not texting a number for no reason to make sure we’re still meeting up for our study session?

Lance smirks at the message and snaps a quick selfie of him in the store’s back workroom, a place Hunk is more than familiar with, considering Coran has an entire aisle in the store dedicated to old cookbooks. As in, some of those cookbooks were published in the late 1800s.

 ** **Lance (10:57):**** I live, and study’s still on.

 ** **Hunk (10:57):**** And you’re okay?

 ** **Lance (10:58):**** As I’ll ever be. Still meeting at Balmera’s?

 ** **Hunk (10:58):**** Yep

 ** **Lance (10:58):**** You think Shay will be there?

 ** **Hunk (10:58):**** I would disown you if I didn’t love you

 ** **Lance (10:58):**** I’m not the only one you love~

****Hunk (10:58):** ** _You are disowned._

Lance sends another selfie, this time a close-up of his puppy-dog eyes and sad pout. His eyes only look a _little_ tired, and thanks to the lighting and some expert handling of the angles and the magic of filters, his skin isn’t quite so pale.

 ** **Hunk (10:58):****  *heavy. sigh.*

 ** **Hunk (11:00):****  If you bring Pidge’s coffee today you’re forgiven

 ** **Lance (11:00):**** Did you seriously forget to bring Pidge’s coffee

 ** **Lance (11:00):**** You’re lucky you’re still breathing

 ** **Hunk (11:00):**** I mean, that’ll be the case for you if you don’t bring it.

 ** **Hunk (11:01):****  She’s growing horns and steam’s coming out of her ears.

 ** **Hunk (11:01):****  The gremlin transformation is nearly complete.

 ** **Hunk (11:01):****  Loading, 87%

 ** **Lance (11:02):**** I hate you.

 ** **Hunk (11:02):****  I love you too bro~

Lance rolls his eyes as he pockets his phone and focuses on where he’s walking so he doesn’t risk bumping into someone. People don’t like other people bumping into them on a good day – he doesn’t want to chance someone having a bad day. So far, his own day has been good, and he’d like to keep it that way. Good days don’t come by very often.

As he passes The Atlas he waves at Rizavi when he sees her cleaning up a table by the window, and she waves cheerily back. He’s about to enter and order Pidge’s special coffee that is marginally more deadly than his, but he pauses with a hand on the doorknob. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, that slithers in his stomach and winds tight around all his organs, almost physically making it impossible for not to look back at the used-to-be empty store.

The light that had been on earlier was in the backroom, and now a second in the front is on, illuminating long rows of shelves that are just beginning to be filled up with objects he can’t quite make out (he’s going to safely assume they’re books), and a lot of boxes stacked on top of each other, strewn hazardously around the floor of the shop. He can see Shiro and that distinct streak of white in his hair. Shiro’s facing the large windows that Lance is looking through, talking to someone a little shorter than him, with black hair that – dear god, is that a _mullet?_ In this day and age?

Lance shakes his head as he turns away and enters the coffee shop. Honestly. Shiro’s brother has to have some drop-dead gorgeous killer looks to make up for walking around with a _mullet _.__

Adam’s gone on an errand, so he doesn’t hang around in the coffee shop for very long after typing out Pidge’s order on his phone and showing it to James, who nods and gets the coffee ready quick as can be. He throws in a couple of cookies to satisfy the sweet tooth Pidge begrudgingly admits does indeed exist to combat her addiction to the black death James hands him once it’s ready.

Lance is on his way to Balmera Restaurant five minutes later, already dreading the next few hours of study he’s about to have to endure. Finals are right around the corner and he can no longer afford to half-ass his way through studying like he has been the last few weeks (much to Pidge’s chagrin). Even just thinking about the exams is giving him that weird anxiety that sits like a cloud of moths in his stomach; half-fearing he’ll fail everything, half-hoping for the best. At this point he’s beginning to think that by the time finals actually roll around, he’ll be so numb from anxiety and worry of it all that he’ll just take the damn things and be done with them. God, he wishes they’d just come already. He’s tired of living like this.

It happens when he turns on the street leading to their meet-up point at Balmera Restaurant.

At first, he doesn’t recognize it. It’s happened so many times that he knows how it is, but the sheer shock of it happening now totally eclipses the logic that tells him what’s happening. But then he feels a too-familiar twinge of pain stab his left hand, his fingers twitching in spasms as he gasps sharply at the pain. A second later, something warm and wet dribbles down his nose.

Lance freezes in the middle of the street. People continue on their way, parting around him like the Red Sea. Everyone’s too busy with their own lives to notice him swipe the back of his hand under his nose and wipe away the blood that continues to drip sluggishly out of his nose.

He shakes his head, staring at the red streak across the pale brown skin. No. No, this can’t be happening. This is only supposed to happen once a month, and he __did__ it, he fulfilled the goddamn quota of the month. After years of this, he’s memorized the schedule. He tortured himself by going to the fancy avenue with its fancy houses and its one fancy burning house. He tortured himself with looking at the scorched, dead body of the man that had been in his sketch, from the exact vantage point the sketch had been scribbled in.

This can’t be happening _again,_ barely a week later.

Thinking that, railing against the unfairness of it all, doesn’t change the fact that it is happening.

Lance just barely manages to duck into an empty alleyway next to a dumpster before his legs give out from under him. He collapses on the cold, wet ground, wheezing around the sudden knot in his throat. He scrabbles at the front of his jacket helplessly for a moment, pressing the heel of his hand against his chest, right over his wildly thumping heart. He tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut on the pain as he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

His hands are shaking violently as he presses on Hunk’s speed dial, his breath coming out in short, harsh pants as he desperately tries to fight off what he knows is coming. He stares at the trembling phone clutched tight in his hands, praying for Hunk to pick up quickly. He does, but Lance can’t hear what he says. He can’t answer to whatever Hunk’s saying to him because he can’t hear anything beyond the blood rushing through his head, the pounding at the base of his skull. He can’t bring himself to use his long dormant voice; he can’t bring himself to say something, anything. All that sounds down the line is the sound of his breathing, trying to drag in as much air into his barren lungs as he can.

Tears sting his eyes and overflow like a flooded riverbank. He has never felt more useless, more pathetic, than in this moment, unable to even _ask_ for the help he needs because he’s like this.

That’s all Hunk needs. He hangs up, and Lance closes his eyes as tears weep out at the corners, clutching his phone to his chest as he huddles in the shadow of the alley. All he can do now is wait. Wait, in agonizing anticipation of what he knows is coming, what he can’t ever truly fight off no matter how hard he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) || [Tumblr for my passion project](https://www.inkusenshoku.tumblr.com) || [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) ||  
> 


	4. [190]

When he comes to, he’s in a familiar bedroom, sitting on a bed he’s sat on hundreds of times before. It’s not his room, nor is it Hunk’s – it’s Pidge’s. Her house is the closest to the Balmera Restaurant, and he was only five minutes away from reaching it.

He realizes this in a vague sort of way, knowing he knows where he is, but his brain is still more than a little foggy on the details. It’s always like this after an episode, so he doesn’t worry too much. Those details never come back anyway.

Like Lance, Pidge’s bedroom is in the attic. Unlike Lance, her room is – more personal. He stares at Pidge’s bedroom ceiling, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars, some of them half peeled off the ceiling already and barely hanging on. Her walls are painted a light beige colour. There’s a large closet in right from the door in the corner of the room, a big desk in front of the windows that with shimmering emerald green curtains pulled shut to protect the laptop and desktop computer from the sunlight. Set carefully in place on the lip of the windows are neatly placed candles of different colours – scented candles he bought for her a few weeks ago. Some of the candles are already melted halfway down.

Scattered around the room are miscellaneous techie objects, enough wires to build a rope bridge the length of the Golden Gate Bridge, and what looks like the beginnings of a homemade computer. That’s not to mention the clothes scattered around the room, and the pile of stuffed animals on her bed, propped up on the pillows on the right side of the bed next to him. There’s a large teddy bear that rivals Pidge in height, one smaller teddy bear nestled in the big one’s arms, a shark and a whale (gifts from Lance), a giraffe (Matt’s irony for her height), and a green lion. He’s not entirely sure where that one came from, though Pidge says she got it as a present from a childhood friend. It’s worn and the eyes clearly been stitched back on, so the fact that she still keeps it probably means a lot to her.

Pidge is seated at the desk, fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop, the golden rings she loves so much that Lotor gifted her flashing in the sunlight from the speed with which her fingers move. Lance honestly has no idea how she manages to have what looks like several dozen windows open at the same time, repeatedly switching between them and only staying on one page for a few seconds before she’s zipping over to another page. Occasionally, a program with green lines of code set on black will open up and Pidge will rapidly type something into it before it vanishes back to wherever it came from and she continues with…whatever it is she’s doing.

At this point, Lance is entirely willing to believe that Pidge managed to upload some kind of AI source code into her brain so that she’s able to do things faster than any human alive can on a computer. Or maybe she’s that one human who does it faster than everyone else. Either way, it’s cool to watch, even if he can’t understand a smidgen of it.

Lance looks away from her, lying perfectly still on the bed so she doesn’t know he’s awake yet. She looks busy anyway. He looks beside him to see that Rover, Pidge’s adorable beagle, is sleeping next to Lance on the bed, body warm beside Lance’s cold one as the dog snuggles into the stuffed animals keeping him company. Lance lifts his hand slowly and pets Rover gently so that he doesn’t wake up and bark. Rover just grumbles softly, the vibrations running through his body at Lance’s ministrations. His lips tip up in a smirk. If he didn’t love Witch so much, he’d honestly be jealous of Pidge and Rover.

He catches Pidge swivelling in her chair to face him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t have time to pretend to still be asleep before her face lights up when she sees him, the deep frown settled on her eyebrows smoothing out as she leaps out of her chair and hurries over to him.

“[Hey,]” she says. Her signing is a little halting because she hasn’t been learning for very long, and hasn’t had much practice (and also, ASL is _fucking hard okay,_ American and British sign language is a peach compared to Altean)but the fact that she tries at all means more to Lance than he can say. She understands more than she’s able to sign, too.

 _Hey, Pidge,_ he mouths.

She smiles a little. “[You were out the whole day yesterday. Hunk called your mom and told her you’re sleeping over.]” She glares at her hands for a moment. “He had to go back home, but he said he’ll try to come back later today after his shift at Balmera’s, but no promises ’cause his parents need his help with something at home.”

 _Thank you, blessed Hunk,_ he thinks. He left home early enough for Luis to text him about Mami being worried – no doubt she would’ve gotten doubly so by his complete ghosting for the whole day yesterday. Sleepovers at Hunk’s or Pidge’s are his saving grace from an interrogation from both his parents.

 _[Thanks,]_ he says, moving his hands slowly, his brain still catching up to his body being awake. _[What time is it?]_

“Um.” She glances at her watch, then lifts it so he can see. It’s almost 3 PM.

_[Where are your parents?]_

“Matt took ’em for an ‘impromptu’ outing.” She replies. “Figured you’d need a little bit of a break.”

 _[Remind me to buy your brother coffee,]_ he says. Besides his family, Hunk, Pidge, and Matt are the only ones who know about what Lance can do. _[I owe him one.]_

She nods.

He blinks slowly. _[Wait, I didn’t bring your coffee, did I? Sorry.]_

She shakes her head. “[It’s fine.] I mean, Hunk eventually went and got it __like he was supposed to__ after we made sure you wouldn’t…” she trails off. She bites her bottom lip before asking, “[How do you feel?]”

_[Like I was run over by a tractor. Just peachy.]_

Pidge rolls her eyes at the weak sarcasm. She sits next to him on the bed and pulls her legs up, bracing her elbows on her knees. Pidge laces her fingers together and looks at him over them with a no-nonsense expression on her face. When she signs, he already knows what she’s going to say. It’s what she’s been saying the last couple of months.

“The symptoms are getting worse.” She notes. Her brows are lowered in worry as she carefully regards him. She sighs heavily. “Lance, the more you hate this ability you have, the worse it’s going to get. [You know that, right?] You know that that’s the correlation between why they’re getting worse.”

Lance lifts his hands and signs half-heartedly at her. She follows the movement of his hands, closely. _[What do you expect me to do? Suddenly fall in love with being able to draw people’s deaths? It’s not that simple.]_

“[I know, but…]” she trails off, frowning thoughtfully at her hands again. She breathes in deep. “But what if it gets so bad that you literally risk giving yourself an aneurysm because of this?”

He doesn’t say, _Maybe I deserve it._ Last time he said something like that, Pidge got so mad she didn’t speak to him for a week. A screaming angry Pidge he knows how to deal with. A quietly angry one? There’s no rulebook for that one. Then it becomes a game of trial and error to win back her favour, and any error gets you deeper in shit than you already were in, because Pidge doesn’t get quiet angry for no reason.

He knows why she would get quiet angry if he said that now, for this. When he was younger, he had no symptoms for these episodes brought on by his ability. He’d just fall into a trance and draw. After Veronica died, and after his relations with his family started to deteriorate because of the sketches, he’d started getting mild headaches whenever an episode was about to come on. Then the headaches turned into migraines that lasted anywhere between one day to one week, coupled with a bout of dizziness and nausea.

This last year has been the worst; hands shaking like he’s got arthritis despite turning eighteen in a month, nosebleeds that make him feel like he’s been clobbered into a brick wall, pulsing pain in his head like someone’s shooting a plasma laser gun directly into his brain, and fainting spells that knock him unconscious for at least a day.

Team Plank’s ‘sleepovers’ have gotten a lot more frequent in the last year.

Lance pushes himself up to sit braced against the mound of pillows Pidge absolutely has to have in her bed at all times (honestly her bed’s more like a fluffy blanket-and-pillows nest). He runs his hands through his messy hair with a heavy sigh before his hands drop limply to his lap and he just…stares at them.

He wonders what would happen if he just cut off his left hand. He’s a leftie, that’s the hand he uses to sketch with – would the ability stop if he did cut it off? Or would it just switch over to the right? What if he cut off both hands? Would this nightmare finally end, or would it play some twisted joke and he’d draw people’s final moments in life with his feet?

Slowly, without looking at her, he signs, _[I know it’s dangerous, but I don’t know what to do. The more I have to do this, the more I hate it, and it’s like a never-ending circle. I don’t know what to do to make it stop. If I did, I’d have done it by now.]_

He looks up at her. She nods, then frowns thoughtfully. “But didn’t you already sketch something this month?” she asks. He’s grateful that she sets aside the issue of how harsh the bodily warnings for an episode are for now.

He swallows, nods jerkily. He just barely catches her mouthing, _What the fuck?_ as she jumps off the bed and goes to her desk, snatching up her tablet and scrolling through it. She’s entirely focused on it as she walks back to the bed and sits, hunched over the tablet. When she finally looks up at him, there’s clear worry lining her eyes in tired pink. When’s the last time she got a good night’s sleep?

 _[What’s wrong?]_  he asks warily.

He knows that tablet is the one Pidge puts all her research in about his ability, ever since she first walked in on him sketching, eyes completely blank and devoid of emotion or thought, not even looking at the page as his hand slashed across it, filling the white with streaks and scrawls of blue ink.

She spins the tablet around and shows him a simple calendar. It’s set to show the months of each year, with teal blue dots for events in different dates of the month scattered across. Pidge reaches over and taps a button, switching windows to a notebook app. This time there are dates there.

He only has to look at the first four to realize what it is she’s trying to show him. When he looks up at her, she tells him anyway.

“The dates for when you have an episode get progressively closer over this last year. There’s never been more than one between a twenty-eight day window, but clearly…”

 _That’s not the case anymore,_ he finishes silently, recalling how confused and utterly helpless and pathetic he felt yesterday.

He puts the tablet down on the bedspread between them, shifting to cross his legs. Rover rolls over onto his other side, ears flapping a bit before he settles down again with a pleased huff.

He glances around the room. _[Where’s my sketchbook?]_

Pidge hesitates. She looks like she wants to say something, but shakes her head instead and reaches down to drag his messenger bag out from under the bed. She pushes it over to him and he takes it warily, already dreading what’s going to happen.

Delaying the inevitable, he instead pulls out his phone. Pidge nods in understanding and takes out her own phone to fiddle with as he switches his on and scrolls through it. There’s one missed call from Luis, two from Marco, and four from Mami. There’s a dozen messages as well, two from Coran, three from Marco, and quite a bit more from Mami.

None from his father.

 ** **Coran (06:48):**** Are you coming in for work today?

 ** **Coran (07:19):**** Let me know if you’re okay, lad.

Lance shoots him a quick message apologizing for not turning up to work today and for not telling him about it. Coran replies almost instantly, assuring him it’s all right, just so long as he gives a warning next time. Lance says sorry again and thanks, before thumbing over to Marco’s texts.

 ** **Marco (12:24):****  Where are you? Mami’s worried, said she hasn’t seen you since last night. Seriously if I find out you were found in a gutter or something I’m going to kill you

 ** **Marco (13:36):**** Ok this isn’t a joke, call me

 ** **Marco (14:52):**** Why do I have to hear from Hunk that your battery’s dead? Or is it…

Lance’s lips twitch. He doesn’t need to answer that, specifically. Marco already knows that Hunk covers for him whenever an episode happens out of the blue like this.

 ** **Lance (14:37):**** I’m fine, at Pidge’s

 ** **Marco (14:37):****  One of these days I am actually going to murder you. Normal people can’t handle multiple heart attacks in a single day hermanito

 ** **Lance (14:37):****  I mean, you could try. Pretty sure Pidge will hack your student files and screw with your hard-earned grades before you can

 ** **Marco (14:37):**** Why hasn’t she hacked the pentagon yet

 ** **Lance (14:37):****  Too easy

 ** **Marco (14:37):****  Are you saying she already has. Why was there no news about it

 ** **Lance (14:37):**** They still don’t know she was already in

 ** **Marco (14:38):****  Your friends scare me

 ** **Lance (14:38):**** They scare me too

 ** **Lance (14:38):****  I’m fine. I’ll be home later

 ** **Marco (14:39):**** Tell that to Mami, she’s losing her mind. Hunk covering for you didn’t really help

 ** **Lance (14:39):**** But the battery’s a good excuse?

 ** **Marco (14:39):**** You wanna run that by a borderline hysterical half Latina mom who hasn’t heard from her baby boy in over 24 hours?

 ** **Lance (14:40):****  I see your point

 ** **Marco (14:40):****  Need me to come pick you up?

 ** **Lance (14:40):**** No, it’s okay. See you later

 ** **Marco (14:41):**** Take care of yourself hermanito

A hand waves in front of his face. He looks up and once she has his attention, Pidge says, “[Matt says he’s dropping you home] when he and mom and dad get back, and that he’s not taking no for an answer.”

_[Um. Thanks?]_

She nods and returns to her phone. Lance switches the chat over to his mom’s number, reading through the plethora of messages she left, feeling sick to his stomach at how worried he made her.

 ** **Mami (06:49):**** Mijo where are you? Why didn’t you stay for breakfast? Have you eaten?

 ** **Mami (07:24):**** Abuela called and told me you dropped by and that you went to work.

 ** **Mami (07:25):**** Call me when you’re free. Give Coran my greetings

 ** **Mami (13:13):****  Your father wants to know if you’ll be here for dinner tonight

 ** **Mami (14:12):**** Lance, where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone? This isn’t like you

 ** **Mami (14:34):**** I’m worried. Please call me mijo. Your father’s worried as well.

He knows that’s a lie.

 ** **Mami (14:56):**** Hunk called and said your phone died and that you’re staying over at Katie’s. Why didn’t you say it instead of him?

 ** **Mami (14:58):**** Please take care of yourself. I love you mijo

He has a feeling from the last one that she knows why he didn’t call her with Hunk’s phone himself. His fingers are slow as he types out a short response.

 ** **Lance (14:52):**** Sorry. I’m fine. I’ll be home soon.

His phone immediately vibrates, Mami’s name flashing on the screen. He stares at it blankly, panic flashing through him, thumb hovering over the button. He sees Pidge glance over at him, but she doesn’t say anything and returns to her phone, giving him the privacy he needs. His thumb presses on the red button and two appear on either side. Pick up or hang up.

He drags his thumb to the left and the ringing stops. Before it can start up again, he quickly types another message.

 ** **Lance (14:53):**** I can’t pick up rn. I’ll call you later

 ** **Mami (14:54):**** Okay. Please take care of yourself. 

With the feeling of a hand of iron squeezed around his heart, he shoves his phone into his jeans pocket, then reaches and pulls his sketchbook out of his bag. He balances it on his knees, and just looks at it.

His sketchbook is a plain thing. It’s normal, five hundred white A4 pages with a black cover, the book opening in a landscape instead of portrait manner. His name is written in small, neat print on the bottom right corner of the cover. He spent a ridiculously long time at his desk with his tongue poking out, penning his name down in as small and precise lettering as he could manage.

He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at it, absolute dread stirring like a pit of black, venomous snakes in his stomach, but it’s long enough for Pidge to get restless. She reaches over and taps his shoulder to get his attention.

“[Are you going to open it?]” she asks.

He blinks at her. His mind is made up in the moment it takes his eyes to open and close.

_[Have you seen it yet?]_

She shakes her head.

He puts the sketchbook on the pillow Rover’s tail is occasionally twitching on, and says, _[How about we watch Pacific Rim?]_

She stares blankly at him for a moment, despite the interest brimming in her eyes even though they’ve watched Pacific Rim half a dozen times already. “[Are you sure?]”

_[Even if it’s just for a little while, I don’t want to see it yet. I’m going to at some point, but…]_

She regards him sympathetically. “[Not now?]”

He nods. _[Not now.]_

“We still have to study for finals, you know. [They’re in two weeks.]”

_[I mean, Hunk’s not here yet. He gets chemistry better than we do.]_

Pidge grins. It’s positively diabolical and Lance would legitimately fear her if she were a villain. “It’s not like you’re not right there.” She claps her hands and rubs them together like an actual villainous character. “[Cool.] Just don’t cry when you see little Mako crying.”

_[That’s not fair! You get disproportionally mad at the Kaiju when they tear Jaegers apart!]_

Lance doesn’t quite understand it, but Pidge usually gets so worked up when the Kaiju are beating up the Jaegers that she’d rage at the screen the entire time. The only thing that pacifies her is Hunk promising to bake her some chocolate chip cookies, and even that only slightly mollifies her. She’d still glare sourly at the screen like the Kaiju have done her some personal wrong.

“[Not the same thing!] And it’s freaking annoying, okay, like, can’t they just give the Jaegers a break, Jesus.” She shakes her head with an already comically foul look on her face as she jumps up and grabs her laptop, holding it carefully as she clambers onto the bed and cajoles a still-grumbling Rover to sleep at the foot of the bed as she settles herself next to Lance.

She leans back on the mound of pillows and clicks through the possible thousands of folders in her laptop before opening the movie, then pauses it with a sharp gasp.

“[Snacks!]” she exclaims. She hoists the laptop into Lance’s startled hands and bounds off the bed again as she quickly explains, “I’m gonna get us some snacks dad bought last night. Don’t you dare start without me!”

He smiles in friendly fondness at her eagerness as she runs out of the room. Even though she’s not there to see it, he still answers, _[Wouldn’t dream of it.]_

##  ****×** **

The drive back home is spent with Lance mostly struggling to stay awake. After every episode and subsequent blackout, he’s always tired, and laughing at Pidge railing at ‘those freaking Kaiju oh my god!’ must have exhausted him more than he thought. Couple that with Hunk’s arrival and commencing actual study left Lance absolutely wiped. His eyes still hurt after staring at chemical equations and biological explanations about what rods and cones do in the eye and why _The Lord of the Flies_ is such a good depiction of society in any era.

He thanks Matt for dropping him home, and stands and waves as the taillights of Matt’s car disappear around a corner. Lance isn’t sure how long he stands there on the pavement, staring out at the nice street he lives on, all the neighbours with their front yards of neatly clipped grass and the occasional swing-set and sandpit for their kids.

Honestly, Lance __was__  planning on going inside. He’s tired, every limb feels weighed down as if lead is in his veins instead of blood, and he just wants to go to the safety of his room and pass out with Witch potentially deciding to sleep on his back or stomach like she’s wont to do sometimes. But the second he turns around to walk in, he freezes.

His house isn’t scary. Not in the least. It’s normal, quite big, with two floors and the attic that is his bedroom. The house is flooded with light since it’s only just ticked past 19:30 PM, and he imagines that his entire family – minus Abuela and maybe Marco if he’s still at his university – is sitting at the dining table, eating dinner. Being a family. Without him.

His house isn’t scary. Not in the least.

And yet, it is fear to enter that grips his heart. It is fear to enter that house that has him spinning right back around and quickly walking down the street, a lump in his throat and the threat of fresh tears burning the backs of his eyes. He pulls out his phone and shoots Mami a quick text saying he’d be back late and that he already ate dinner. Mami doesn’t reply, but he knows she’s seen his text. She’s probably disappointed in him, that he won’t come home and face his family when they probably know why he was out of touch for close to twenty-four hours.

Lance is too tired to care about what a piteous disappointment he is to them.

He’s not entirely sure how he winds up back at The Atlas. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the few places in the whole world that he feels safe. Whatever the case is, it finds him sitting by the window seat of the café with a cup of cappuccino at his elbow, his chemistry textbook and two notebooks strewn about in front of him on the table in a pretence of revising while he idly fiddles with his camera. He would squeeze some studying into his tired brain, if he weren’t so busy emptily staring at the white cream in the cappuccino instead, as if it holds all the answers to his problems. The only time his gaze strays from the cup is to glance at his bag, before quickly looking away.

He still hasn’t looked at what he’s sketched this time. He’s afraid to. Could anyone blame him for that? After enduring this for so long, after having to face the hatred and blame from his family __because of this,__ could anyone blame him for not wanting to see the face of yet another person who’s going to die within the next three months? People can say they’d like to know the future all they want, but until they’re actually faced with the bloody reality of what it’s like, they know jack shit.

To distract himself from it, Lance repeatedly looks across the street at the empty store. Sometimes he’ll lift his camera and snap a shot or two, liking the way the light of the streetlamp just in front of the store throws the whole thing in a warm glow. There’s a light on in the apartment above it, but the store itself sits dark. He wonders if Shiro and his brother are close to finishing with setting up their store. He wonders if Shiro managed to get Adam’s number yet – probably? Maybe? Adam’s not in so he can’t bug him about it. He vows to find out, tomorrow. Getting all up in other people’s romantic lives is a far better alternative than brooding on his own lack of one, or the other thing that sits like a ball of knives in his stomach.

It’s nearing the café’s closing time when Lance gathers the courage to take his sketchbook out and flip it open from the back. He’s going to have to look at it at some point. All he’s been doing all day is simply delaying the inevitable. It just…it really sucks, that he already did this for the month, and now he has to do it _again _.__ He has to look at the face of somebody who’s going to die in three months, and know that there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He’s tried to, of course. After Veronica died, after he realized that his drawings aren’t the result of a messed up psych but actually prophetic sketches of people’s impending deaths, he’d tried to prevent them from happening. He tried to find the people he drew, tried to warn them. Nobody ever believed him. Really, who would?

Who’d believe a kid telling them not to use the bus they always regularly use to commute to work? Who would believe a kid trying to warn them off walking alone on a particular night when they always do, or at the very least not carry their wallet or any fancy, eye-catching jewellery? Even if he wasn’t a kid when he did all that, who would believe him anyway? They’d think he’s mad and call the cops on him or something. As it was, him being a child always made them irritably push him away – just another youngster pulling pranks.

One way or another, his sketches always come true.

The blank pages, still as of yet undrawn, flash by in the blink of an eye, and then his latest drawing sits before him. His breath wheezes out of him in a sharp exhale. His blood freezes in his veins as he stares at the tuft of white hair surrounded by black styled in an undercut, a pink line of scarred tissue over the bridge of a nose set between slightly slanted eyes that are closed in eternal sleep.

Shiro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) || [Tumblr for my passion project](https://www.inkusenshoku.tumblr.com) || [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) ||  
> 


	5. [183]

Lance…is very much aware that he is being a creepy bastard, thank you very much. That knowledge does nothing to deter him. If there’s one thing about him that can be either good or bad, it’s his sheer, mulish stubbornness. Abuela’s convinced he got it from his Abuelito, may he rest in peace.

So far, Hunk is the only one who knows what Lance is doing right now. He saw what he sketched, and that’s because he’s the one who put Lance’s sketchbook away once he stopped drawing and slowly slipped into unconsciousness after being stuck in the trance he usually falls into for however long it takes him to draw a death. He knows Lance is hanging around the coffee shop a lot more than he usually does, but he just doesn’t know _why _.__

What is Lance doing?

Well, when he’s not studying, the anxiety of the fast-approaching exams writhing in his stomach like a mass of wriggling maggots, he’s pretending to study at Adam’s coffee shop while not actually doing so, and instead keeping an eye on Shiro’s brother’s shop that is slowly, visibly, gearing up for opening. He would stick around Shiro’s dojo, but that would be way too obvious.

It should be easy to do this, considering Coran’s antiques store is right around the corner, and Lance comes in to The Atlas every day anyway. It should be easy, but it’s not. School eats up most of his time, then there’s work at the antiques store, and then there’s still cramming for finals – all of which leave him very little time to think about how to approach Shiro.

(And basically no time to sleep, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Usually that would be a good thing; whenever he draws something, he tries to avoid thinking about it. Only sometimes does he follow the clues left in the sketch to find the person who’s supposed to die, and he only does that when he’s feeling particularly self-loathsome and wants a reminder for why his family is the way they are to him.

Now, it’s not such a good thing. It’s been a week, and he still doesn’t know why he’s doing this, or how he’s going to do it.

Whenever he bumps into Shiro on his morning run to get coffee for him and his brother, whom Lance has yet to officially meet, Lance is barely able to stumble his way through more than a handful of signs (heh) before he’s quite literally running away, unable to look Shiro in the eye without the image of his latest sketch superimposing itself over Shiro’s smiling face. It’s hard, and it hurts to look at the bright smile on Shiro’s face whenever he sees Adam, or when he greets Lance in the mornings.

Lance nearly rockets off his seat like a ballistic missile in shock, tearing his eyes away from glaring frustrated holes at the storefront that now reads Marmora’s Books, when dark fingers snap twice in front of his face. He holds a hand to his wildly thumping as he looks up to Adam’s plainly displeased face as he sits in the free chair across from the little table Lance had occupied right by the shop’s front windows.

“[What’s wrong?]” he asks, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head and pinching the bridge of his nose before he focuses all his attention on Lance.

Lance stares blankly at him. What’s wrong? Well, a lot of things are wrong, but he can’t exactly say that, now, can he?

_Um,_ he starts eloquently. He glances down at his books spread before him, sketchbook carefully hidden under them, and lights up at the perfect excuse. _[I’m studying.]_

“[No you’re not.]”

Well. He was not prepared for that.

_[Yes I am?]_

“[If you were, you would have actually looked like you were studying, but you do not, and don’t try lying to me, Lance.]” He looks more concerned than disappointed.

_[What?]_

Adam sighs. “[You’re jumpy, you’re here what seems like every minute of your free time when finals are in exactly one week and I know how badly you want to pass them, you look like you haven’t slept more than five minutes a night, and you’re staring at Shiro brother’s shop like you want to set it on fire.]” He informs him bluntly, ticking each description off like a grocery list, and Lance winces at every one.

_[I don’t want to set it on fire!]_ he exclaims indignantly. That one hits a little too close to the heart of the issue for his comfort.

He lifts one brow. “[Could have fooled me.]” He frowns, lips pursed. “[Lance, what’s wrong? Are things all right at home?]”

Lance immediately tenses at that.

Does Adam know? Does he know how ‘home’ doesn’t feel like home at all, that it hasn’t felt like what he can only vaguely remember a home should feel like since he was a little kid? But how? He’s never let on about it, and the only ones who really know outside of his immediate family are Hunk and Pidge. Even Pidge isn’t sure of the true extent of it, only piecing it together from the way Lance avoids home like it’s a house of plague, and how Marco seems to be the only one who actually tries to keep Lance a part of the disintegrating family.

_[What…do you mean?]_ he asks slowly.

A heartbroken look steals across Adam’s face before disappearing, so quickly that he wonders if he saw it at all.

“[Lance,]” he says. “[You’re always at work with Coran, and when you’re not, you’re here with Hunk and Pidge. You never talk about your family the way they do.]”

Lance didn’t think he was that obvious about it – or maybe Adam’s just that astute enough to figure it out. He hadn’t thought that he was being particularly obvious about it, at least. No one ever really pays attention to him anyway, no one wanting to deal with someone who can’t hear them and doesn’t talk with his voice even though he’s fully capable of it.

Lance puts on as brave a smile as he can – which is quite brave, he’s proud of his acting skills thankyouverymuch – and says, _[Don’t worry about it, Adam. I just find here a more conducive place to study.]_ He gestures at all the other students at their own tables, studying as well, though a couple look old enough to be in university already. __[I mean, it’s not like I’m the only one.]__

Adam looks disappointed but unsurprised that he deflected the conversation away from his home life. He remains unconvinced, but Lance breathes a sigh of relief when Adam nods slowly.

“[Right,]” he says. “[Although, you are staring at that store more than actually studying.]”

His stomach curls at the mention, at the reminder of why. He schools his face into something that doesn’t look like how he feels as he thinks about his latest sketch.

_[Which reminds me,]_ he leers at Adam like a lecherous old man. It’s a little wobbly, but hopefully the irritation at the face will disguise it. _[How’s it going on that front?]_

“[Please don’t ever smile like that ever again.]” He deadpans. It does nothing to deter Lance from the pink roses in Adam’s cheeks as a slow, shy smile peeks out. “[But…it’s going okay.]”

_[Okay?]_ Lance repeats incredulously. Shiro staying and talking to Adam for close to thirty minutes every morning doesn’t look like ‘okay’. _[Just okay?]_

“[Come on Lance, we just met.]”

_[And.]_

Adam rolls his eyes. “[Fine, fine. We’re going on a date. To the park. And he said he’ll give me a tour of his dojo. He’s, um,]” he visibly clears his throat. “[He’s quite – quite fit. Works out. A bit.]”

_A bit is a bloody understatement._

Lance’s stomach swoops in simultaneous happiness for him, and frustrated worry for Shiro. Shit, what is he going to do? Adam rarely looks this happy over a guy (Adam’s past few relationships weren’t exactly – great), and Shiro’s clearly a great person. Lance hasn’t been around Shiro much per se, considering he keeps running away every time they meet, but from what he’s heard from Adam himself and the others who work here and know Lance well, Shiro’s a really good guy. Even Coran’s met him by now, unsurprising since his dojo is barely five minutes from the antiques store. Coran’s had nothing but positively glowing words about him.

Lance knows, he __knows__ that once he draws someone’s death, it always comes true. He knows it, but at the same time a part of him can’t help but think, _What if there’s something I missed? What if there is a way to stop it and I just haven’t found it yet?_

If there is, he has to find it, and deal with the emotional consequences of knowing such a way existed and he never used it for all the times before. If there isn’t…

He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He really doesn’t. He’ll just deal with it when the time comes. Avoidance is the best way to delay acne by stress. He figured that out the hard way.

He doesn’t realize he’s zoned out until Adam waves his hand in front of his face, the concern right back in his eyes like it never left. “[Lance, are you sure you’re all right? You’re not like yourself.]”

_[I’m fine, I’m fine.]_ He shoos off the worry with a physical wave of his hand, and then just barely manages to cover his mouth on a huge yawn that overtakes him before he can stop it.

Adam’s looking at him with knowing when it ends.

He rolls his eyes. _[Okay, maybe a little sleep would help. But, like, at the same time – finals.]_

He sighs. “[I am so glad I’m not a student anymore. I warn you, if you think high school’s bad, wait until you get to uni.]”

He gasps dramatically, slapping a hand over his heart before signing, _[Are you actively trying to deter me from pursuing a higher education, Adam?]_

His eyes widen. “Wait, no, [that’s not – ]”

Lance laughs, and though he never uses his voice to speak, when he laughs, he does so wholeheartedly. _[Chill, I’m just messing with you.]_

“[You’re terrible.]”

_[I know. That’s why you love me.]_

“[Of course,]” he shakes his head with a wry smile, then glances to the front counter. He looks over to see Rizavi saying something about an email about delivery of some new stock. Adam frowns.

“[I have to go,]” he tells him apologetically, pushing out of his seat as he slides his glasses back on his nose. “[But make sure you get some sleep, all right?]”

_[Aye, aye, Lieutenant West.]_

Adam rolls his eyes before waving and hurrying to his office at the back of the store. Lance’s smile melts off his face like butter under a desert sun as his eyes are drawn back to the store across the street, and the lights from the apartment right above it. He bites the inside of his cheek as he stares at it.

He can’t – he has to do something. He has to figure something out. He can’t let Shiro die.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by his phone ringing, the incessant buzzing sending vibrations rocking through the table. He picks it up and answers the call, knowing that the caller will just keep calling if he doesn’t. Pidge’s face pops up on the screen.

“[Hey, Lance,]” she says.

_[Hey. What’s up?]_

“One of my friends called to ask if I’m gonna bring anyone over when I go check out his new shop, and I saw you’re at Adam’s and I was gonna ask you anyway and – ”

_[Wait, wait, wait!]_ he gestures wildly for Pidge’s attention. _[What do you mean you saw I’m at Adam’s?]_

“Your phone’s GPS, duh.”

_[Not duh, what the fuck.]_ He exclaims. _[Did you put a freaking tracker in my phone?]_

Pidge gives him a dead fish-eyed look. “How do you think Hunk found you yesterday? You weren’t exactly in a position to tell him where you were.”

He blinks. Purses his lips as they twitch sideways. _[Good point.]_ He acquiesces begrudgingly. _[But it would have been nice to know you can track me before now, you know.]_

She blinks. “[Good point,] consent’s important.”

_[You don’t say.]_

She sticks her tongue out at the deadpan look he gives her.

He just returns the favour before asking, _[So what exactly does me being at Adam’s have to do with your friend? And which friend is this?]_

Pidge only hangs out with him and Hunk. Everyone else annoys her. Her words, not his.

“[He’s a family friend.] His brother and Matt were in high school together and are still close, and I was friends with his little brother. They moved to Daibazaal a couple of years ago but came back last month, and they’re opening a book shop literally across from Adam’s shop. Well, my friend is. His brother came back before him and already has a dojo open for two months, [I think?] Maybe three.”

Lance gapes stupidly at her. _[Are you serious?]_

She squints at him. “What are you making that face for?”

_[Is your friend’s brother tall, hot, clearly works out to his benefit, black hair with white in it, and a scar on his nose?]_

She wrinkles her nose. “You think he’s hot?”

_[Are you saying he’s not?]_

“If he was a proper cyborg he would be.” Then she gawks at him. “Wait, how the hell do you know Shiro?”

He laughs at her incredulous expression as his brain screeches at him, _Oh Jesus fuck, oh my fucking god, she knows Shiro, she knows him, I can’t let her see the sketch._

If Shiro and his brother are her family friends, she’s known them probably for __years.__ He doesn’t want to put her through knowing that Shiro’s death is the one he drew last week. He can’t do that to her.

_[Real small world, huh.]_ He says, trying to make his gestures light, fighting to keep the smile on his face. _[I met him last week when I went to get coffee.]_ Literally on the same day he drew Shiro’s death.

Lance is not appreciating the poetic irony here.

“Shit, bro,” she says, eyes wide. “[Real small world.]” She brightens. “Then have you met Keith yet?”

_[Who’s Keith?]_

“I’ll take that as a no. He’s Shiro’s brother.”

Wait.

_[Does he have a mullet?]_

“Uh, [I guess?] He’s not really into looks or whatever. Barely cuts his hair. I’m still not sure he knows what a barber shop is.” She grins. “Once I actually caught him trying to cut his hair with a kitchen knife when it got too long.”

_[Oh my god,]_  Lance groans even as he holds back an amused snicker. _[What kind of heathen cuts their hair with a kitchen knife? He might as well go bald for all the split ends he’ll get from doing that.]_

“Try saying that to him. I’m pretty sure he sleeps with a knife under his pillow.”

_[I’m disturbed.]_

She shrugs. “[You get used to it.] He’s a cool guy, except for the obsession with knives, but he kinda does have a knack for finding pretty daggers and shit. He told me he has an entire shelf reserved for books he has on weapons. [You know,] I think he’d actually like Coran and Allura’s store. They have that display of swords, right?”

Coran does have a display of actual weapons, although they’re all encased in protective glass cases that are freaking bulletproof, and only actually shown to special patrons of the store. There are swords of varying lengths and widths. The ones most people see are four different types, one of them curved dramatically enough to look like it came straight out of a copy of _The Tales of Shahrazad,_ and a twin set of katanas.

Lance is not a knife person. He doesn’t ever look at knives as anything other than tools to be used in the kitchen. But looking at the weapons Coran only rarely allows him to clean, from the plain wooden hilt enclosed in battle wrap of the katanas to the bejewelled glamour of some of the daggers (he honestly believes a single one must cost a __fortune),__ he can understand why someone would like blades as much as Pidge claims Keith does.

Lance nods. _[Yeah. You can bring him over there sometime.]_

“Uh-huh. Anyway, you wanna come with me to check it out? [Hunk already said he’d come, I called him before you.]” She peers at the screen. “[By the way,] why’ve you been going to Adam’s café so often this week? I thought you didn’t have a crush on him.”

_[I don’t!]_ he signs sharply.

He doesn’t, really. Maybe when he first met him, yeah, but only for like a little while – at the time he’d still been figuring out that he likes boys as much as girls, and Adam actually helped him out with that (not _that_ way you heathens). But…he doesn’t know. He likes Adam, but as a friend. If he’s going to fall for someone, he tries to imagine life with them, and he can’t see being around Adam as more than friends. And anyway, he’s twenty-six. No way would Adam like him as more than a friend when he’s just shy of eighteen.

Besides, Adam has a crush.

Who also happens to be the older brother of Pidge’s close childhood friend.

And said older brother is supposed to die in the next month.

And Lance needs to figure out how to save him before that time is up.

And the exams that determine if he’ll get into Arus with the scholarships he needs to are in exactly one week and two days.

In his head, Lance is imagining that one BTS meme where Suga’s just chilling in an armchair with a fiery explosion bursting around him in Fake Love, completely oblivious or just ignoring it. Either way, _Everything is fine._

“[Okay, okay, don’t worry, I know,] he’s more like your brother,” she soothes, flapping her hand at him. “[So? You coming?]”

_No? Yes? I don’t know? Can someone else make this decision for me please?_

He gulps. _[When?]_

“[Next week after finals]. He’s headed out of town tomorrow to get some new stock, and he’s threatening to rescind the offer if I don’t pass all the exams – ” they both roll their eyes at the very idea. “So, yeah.”

_[Hold on, how old is he anyway?]_ He can’t be their age if he’s opening his own shop, and Pidge is actually a year younger than him and Hunk, having skipped a grade like the genius she is.

“[Twenty.]”

_[He’s in university already?]_ How’s he opening a store on his own __and__ attending school at the same time?

“[He’s…] uh, he hasn’t enrolled yet. Took a gap year,” she hedges.

Lance gets the idea that there’s more to it than she’s letting on, but he doesn’t push. He figures it’s not her story to tell, and he can respect a guy’s privacy. He wouldn’t like it either if someone was busy yapping their mouths about his private affairs to someone else, either. Besides, it’s cool enough that the dude’s already opening up his own store with no real competition on a street that sees a lot of heavy foot traffic.

(Read; customers.)

_[Okay, sure, I’ll come,]_ he says, trying to inject as much enthusiasm in his gestures as possible.

If anything, this will at least be an opportunity to meet the younger brother and find out if Rizavi’s review of him is as on-point as what she said about Shiro was.

He points at Pidge threateningly. _[But if your friend – ]_

“Keith.”

_[Keith, if he sticks a knife in my face…]_

Pidge laughs with a decidedly shrewd glint in her eye. “[Don’t worry, you’ll like him]. He has a bit of a temper, but he’s cool. [I promise.]”

_[Uh-huh. I’m trusting you, Pidge.]_

“When have I ever been wrong?”

_[Do you really want me to answer that?]_

“[No.]”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) || [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) and I have [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/azurehyn) if you…want to know what I look like I guess?
> 
> I made a [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/azurehyn), so hit me up there because…it’s the only way I’m ever going to use it otherwise tbh


	6. [175]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klance meet
> 
> Communication actually happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet, whoot-whoot

Lance thought that he’d spend that final week before finals doing exactly as he had been the previous week; hanging out at The Atlas Café more than is sane, staring – at that point it was probably low-key stalking actually – across the street, noting the times when the lights go on and off (not intentionally, of course). Keith seemed to be a ridiculously late sleeper. The café closes at 9 PM, but Adam often lets him stay when Lance wants to help clean up the place for closing for the night and help Adam out with accounts and stuff, so it’s usually around 11 PM when Lance actually starts the walk home, and the light above Marmora’s Books would still be on then.

Lance doesn’t know how he does it; if he had a choice, he’d be going to bed much earlier than he currently does, because he actually likes sleep. It’s the only time when he doesn’t have to put on a mask and pretend like the weight of his sketchbook isn’t more than he can bear, when he doesn’t have to pretend that pieces of his heart chip away bit by bit, a little more every time he walks out of his house with no one there to say ‘see you later’ even though his whole family is physically _right there,_ and no one there to say ‘welcome home’ when he comes back even though his whole family is physically _right there._

For how much he watched the place, it is, quite frankly, astounding that he hasn’t yet seen what this mullet-wearing Keith fellow looks like. He __sees__ him, sure, but only from behind. Somehow, he’s always standing with his back to the café, even when he’s helping some workers with big boxes move said big boxes into the store. From what he’s seen, though, Lance can tell Keith probably works out as much as Shiro does, even though he’s about four inches shorter than Shiro and on the leaner side.

Lance tries not to wonder about what it means that his thoughts keep returning to Keith and wondering what he’s like. The profile he’s barely managed to put together from Pidge’s call last week and Rizavi’s description of him paints him as some kind of edgelord who clearly has no sense of fashion or times, likes knives, ‘barely human before morning coffee’ (Lance is the same, but he likes to think he’s at least passably human before his coffee), and from what he’s seen with his own eyes, Keith very much likes black clothes.

And not even black patterned clothes. We’re talking black combat boots that look like they saw their better days three centuries ago, skinny jeans that Lance begrudgingly admits look good on those toned legs, alternating black t-shirt or leather jacket. It’s like he takes the colour of his hair and decides to expand it to his entire wardrobe.

Not that it doesn’t suit him. It does. So far as Lance has seen, anyway.

The day of actually getting the chance to see Marmora’s Books – and its owner by association – comes by much sooner than Lance was prepared for. In his defence, he was busy cramming in as much last-minute studying as he could, so he wasn’t exactly painstakingly ticking down the days on the calendar. Plus, he wasn’t sure how he’d feel about the whole thing; he’s going to meet Shiro’s brother, and Lance’s sketches have never been wrong. That isn’t exactly the right recipe for a pleasant afternoon for his state of mind. If things go sideways and he finds he can’t quite stomach the whole experience, he’ll at least have the excuse of needing to go to work soon to run away.

Lance is idly fiddling with his phone at The Atlas, waiting for Hunk and Pidge to come so they could head to Marmora’s. He got here early, the nerves of meeting the younger brother of the man he sketched the death of keeping him up for most of the night and jerking him awake early in the morning, so he ordered a blueberry muffin to nibble on while he waited. He’d like to say that he didn’t dress up for the occasion, and he prays neither Hunk or Pidge will point out that he’s wearing the single pair of jeans he owns that don’t have tears in the thighs and knees (and calves), and his nice navy blue long-sleeved t-shirt under his favourite olive green jacket with orange armbands.

Lance’s attention is snagged by the motion of the front door swinging open, and he looks over just in time to see Hunk calling a cheerful hello to where Adam’s supervising something Sophie’s doing, Pidge trailing in after him with her gaze fixed on her phone as she rapidly thumbs at it.

Adam lifts a hand in greeting and Lance catches him saying, “Look up before you knock into someone Pidge!”

She just barely manages to sidestep walking right into a table someone’s seated at. She murmurs a quick apology to them, stuffing her phone in the pocket of her favourite emerald-green-and-white winter jacket before looking up to search for Lance. He lifts a hand to them. Hunk spots him first, his face breaking out into that wonderful smile that makes Lance feel like a tightly wound clock slowly unwinding from all the tension he never realizes he’s carrying until he’s around his friends. They quickly make their way over.

“[Before we go,]” Hunk says as he pulls a chair from the neighbouring empty table and sits down with a happy hum. “[The gremlin needs her daily potion.]”

Lance eyes Pidge critically as she crosses her arms over her chest with an aggravated huff. _[Yes, the gremlin is looking a little wan. When is the last time she was dosed?]_

Hunk taps his watch with a finger. “[Twelve hours.]”

Lance gasps, hand to his chest. _[Twelve hours? But I have received no reports of burning buildings in that time!]_

“[Guys, I am not that bad.]” Pidge snaps. They both turn their heads very slowly to pin her with twin looks of utter disdainful incredulity. She rolls her eyes at their antics and mutters, “I threaten to burn a building _one time_ if I don’t get my coffee, and they think I’m a pyromaniac.”

Lance and Hunk snicker at her as they subtly fist-bump. Pidge heaves out a sigh heavy enough to blow at the napkins folded neatly by Lance’s elbow, then pushes out of her seat to go order her coffee. They watch her go, and Lance’s smile fades away as Hunk turns to him, concern evident on his face.

“[Dude, are you okay?]” he asks. “[Finals are over but you’re still looking a little…stretched thin.]”

Lance _feels_ stretched thin, as if every limb is being tugged in different directions, tearing him apart. He shrugs nonchalantly. _[Did you just quote Bilbo at me?]_

“[It is never a mistake to quote Biblo Baggins.]” Hunk says seriously.

_[Good point.]_

“[So? Don’t think you’ve distracted me, Lance. You know that doesn’t work with me.]”

Lance sighs. _[I’m fine. Just having some trouble sleeping.]_

That, at least, isn’t a lie. He has never been able to remember anything he dreams, except bits and pieces, snatches of his dreamscapes from when he was a child. But the older he got, the faster those dreams faded away when he woke up – and the worse his sleeping patterns became, because although he couldn’t remember _what_ he dreamt, the terror that came from it bled into his reality and perched like black crows on his bones, hanging over him for the rest of the day.

Lance isn’t sure which would be better; to remember _why_ he was so scared every time he woke up, or to continue living the way he is now.

He’s pretty sure the whole ‘not remembering the nightmares’ is some sort of subconscious defence mechanism to protect his already worn-through psych. He isn’t entirely sure if he appreciates the effort or not. Like with reminding himself why his family hates him and his ability so much, it would be nice if he could remember _why_ he woke up soaked in sweat and barely able to catch his breath.

“[You’ll tell me if it’s more than that, right?]” he presses.

 _[Of course I will,]_ Lance replies, even though he hates burdening Hunk with his problems. _[Don’t worry about it.]_

Hunk looks only slightly mollified by that, but he doesn’t push the issue. They’ve been friends long enough for Hunk to know that when things get really bad, it might take a while – a damn long while – but he _will_ come to Hunk for support. Lance is weak, after all; he can’t bear the burden all on his own, no matter how many times he’s tried to.

“[You said you had something important to tell me about the last sketch?]” he asks.

Lance gulps, nodding. He glances at Pidge to make sure her attention is on getting her order rather than them. The thing about Pidge is, even though she can’t sign very well herself, she’s terrifyingly good at understanding other people sign. It’s why Hunk never has to translate for them and act as a middle-man in their conversation. The bad thing about that is that it’s hard to have a surreptitious conversation like this if she’s anywhere within the vicinity.

_[Yeah. Okay, so I didn’t say anything before because we were losing our minds with finals – ]_

“[Which I am sure you did well on, by the way.]”

 _[Thanks for the vote of confidence.]_ At least one of them feels that way. Lance thinks he did good on the chemistry and biology exams, but the others, especially freaking maths – he can only hope for the best at this point. _[But, uh, see, the thing is, the friend of Pidge’s we’re gonna meet, Keith, his brother’s name is Shiro. And…Shiro’s the one.]_

It takes Hunk exactly .5 seconds to figure it out. Lance knows the instant he does, from the way Hunk’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open as he gapes at Lance.

“No way.”

_[Unfortunately, yes way.]_

“[How do you know?]”

 _[I’ve met him a couple times.]_ Lance smiles thinly. _[He’s a good guy. Adam likes him, and I’m pretty sure Shiro likes him too. They’re going on a date.] He squints. [Or already have gone on one. I’m -I’m not sure.]_ His self-depracating smile is definitely on the wobbly side.

“Crap,” Hunk breathes. “[And Pidge doesn’t know?]

He shakes his head. _[Finals distracted her for a while, but now they’re over and I don’t – Hunk, I don’t know what to do. She’s known him for years. How can I let her see something like that?]_

“[You know she’s going to anyway,]” Hunk reminds him. Pidge always scanned his sketches to attach to the file in her tablet where she keeps every bit of information she can find about Lance’s ability. Hunk pauses, giving Lance a searching look. “[But Lance, you know she’ll understand right? She’s not…she’s not like your dad and the rest of your family. She won’t blame you.]”

Lance is not at all surprised that Hunk saw right through him and can tell why Lance is so scared to show Pidge his last sketch.

 _[I know,]_ he answers, his right leg jumping up and down in a nervous tic. _[But logically knowing that doesn’t make it any less scary.]_

Hunk nods sadly. “Yeah…[I guess I get why you haven’t shown her yet.]”

They sit in silence for a moment, Hunk taking in this piece of unwanted news, Lance trying to figure out the best way to say what he wants to. Hunk has been there from the beginning – Lance met him only two years after Veronica died; he was there to see how her death completely messed Lance up, how his family slowly but surely drifted apart because of how they all think Lance’s sketch is the sole reason why she died. Hunk was there for every single time Lance tried to follow the clues penned into his drawings, followed them right to the people who were the subjects of those drawings, how he tried to warn them, how he tried to save them, to stop their deaths from happening.

He was there to see a little bit of Lance dying with them every time they ignored him because he was just some random kid spewing complete nonsense at them, and he was the one who tried to pick up the broken pieces and put them back together, if only for a little while before Lance shattered all over again.

Over the years of having to watch Lance suffer so much because of his ability, Hunk’s become – somewhat protective.

One time, he actually tried to hide Lance’s sketchbook from him, just to keep him from seeing what he’d drawn. It didn’t work because the next time Lance fell into that trance, his ears wouldn’t stop bleeding until he had a pen in his hand and his sketchbook in the other. The experience only served to ratchet up Hunk’s need to protect Lance from the destructive force of his ability, and even from himself. He knows that Hunk isn’t going to respond well to this, but dammit, Lance can’t just sit by and do nothing while the clock on Shiro’s life ticks closer to midnight.

Hunk knows him well – when he glances at Lance, it’s to see him sitting with his lips pressed to a thin line, fixedly glaring a hole into the table and fingers twitching in a mad tap dance over the wood of the table top, he already knows.

Lance looks up when he sees Hunk’s shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh.

“[Are you sure?]”

Lance nods slowly. _[I have to try. I’ll never be able to look Pidge in the eye if I don’t.]_

“[There’s only three months to work with. That’s not a lot of time.]”

 _[I know,]_ he replies miserably.

The corners of Hunk’s lips turn down in an unconscious pout of worry as he picks at his fingers for a moment. “[Are you going to try and tell this Shiro about it?]”

_[Only if I’ve exhausted all other options.]_

“[You mean ‘we’,]” Hunk corrects with a sad smile. “[Don’t think for even a second that I’m gonna let you do this all alone.]”

Lance’s answering smile is a little shaky, but it’s there. _[Yeah. I mean ‘we’.]_

“[What about Pidge? When will you tell her?]” he asks. “[She won’t be distracted forever, and she’ll help us to figure it out.]”

Lance glances at Pidge. She’s chatting with Adam, showing him something on – his phone, maybe? Hers has a neon green cover on it, so he’s relatively certain that the definitely neon-green-cover-less phone is Adam’s. She looks like she’s explaining something to him, preening like a peacock when he commends her skills.

She looks happy.

Lance’s hands move almost absently as he voices his thoughts the only way he can. _[Soon? I don’t know? I don’t know. Maybe after today?]_

Hunk nods. “[Yeah, maybe after. She’s really excited to see her friend again. I have never seen her this eager about something that isn’t made of metal and code.]”

 _ _[_ That is the only reason why I’m going,] _sort of. He’s still very curious about the Mullet. _[If she likes him, there’s gotta be more to him than that mullet.]_

Hunk is suitably surprised. “[You’ve met him?]”

_[Nah, just seen him around when I go to work.]_

“[Uh-huh.]”

Lance gives him a shrewd look. _[What’s that ‘uh-huh’ for.]_

Hunk smirks. “[You’ve got that look in your eyes.]”

_[What look.]_

“[Like you’ve just spotted the most delectable buffet in the whole world.]”

 _[I am not that shallow.]_ Lance retorts. _[I know there’s more to a person than their looks.]_

“[That’s what you tell yourself. You can spend three hours, twelve minutes, and forty-six seconds on your beauty regimen.]”

_[I’m not that bad.]_

“[I timed you, dude.]”

_[I’m not! I had a zit then, Hunk, a zit!]_

“[Uh-huh.]”

_[Hunk.]_

“[Uh-huh.]”

_[Hunk!]_

“[Uh-huh.]”

Lance wonders how much shit he’d be in with Adam if he overturned the table and sent everything crashing to the ground, just to give Hunk a good scare. Probably too much to risk it.

“Lance is what now?” Pidge slides into her seat with her cup of coffee warming her hands wrapped around the smooth white ceramic surface. She takes a sip before adding, “If it’s idiot, [I agree.]”

_[Hey! I am feeling so attacked right now.]_

Hunk and Pidge roll their eyes at the exact same moment, it’s almost terrifying. “Grow a pair of big boobs and an impractically large ass and maybe you can say that again.” Pidge snipes.

_[Drink your coffee and stop being such a bitter Pidgeon.]_

“[Ironic considering you only drink the most acerbic concoction of ground coffee beans I have ever personally witnessed a human being consume and not immediately keel over from.]” Hunk adds.

_[I second that.]_

Pidge holds steady eye-contact with Lance as she takes a long, slow sip. She smacks her lips when she sets the cup down. “[Yes, it is bitter like my soul.]”

“[You sound like an eighty-year-old spinster.]” Hunk notes.

 _[And did you specifically practice that sign for this?]_ Lance asks. _[I feel like that was rehearsed.]_

Pidge grins proudly. “[It was,] and thank god I didn’t mess it up. I spent three days practising it non-stop. Mom thought I was signing curses at Matt at dinner last night.”

_[Wouldn’t be the first time.]_

Pidge just snorts at that before she glances at her watch. “[Whatever.] Anyway, Keith said he’d call when he’s ready, probably around one thirty, and that’s in like ten minutes, so we can just hang out in here until he calls.”

Hunk claps his hands together. “[Okay then, I’mma go get a muffin. I’m hungry.]”

“You sure you can finish that in time?” Pidge asks suspiciously. Her question is warranted – blueberry muffins here are _huge _.__

 _[Pidge,]_ Lance puts a hand on the table, his face becoming as solemn as he can muster. _[You are looking at the only man on the planet who can eat a large Atlas Café muffin in exactly ten seconds.]_

“[I don’t mean to brag, but,]” Hunk still looks smug as hell when he says, “[Lance is right about that. Adam actually timed this…last month, right?]” Lance affirms it with a nod. “[Yeah, last month. If we’re here for ten minutes, I can eat five muffins at my version of a slow pace before he calls. Everything’s fine.]”

Pidge watches Hunk walk off in silence for a moment before she turns to Lance, a grave look on her face. “I just had an intense flashback to that BTS meme of Suga sitting in that explosion and being totally calm about it.”

 _[I know!]_ Lance grins widely, bouncing in his seat like an overeager Chihuahua hyped up on LSD. _[I was just thinking that.]_

She holds out her fist and he happily bumps it as she says, “Team Plank synchronized brainwaves on the go.”

They spend the rest of the time waiting by idly chatting about this and that, Hunk and Lance tag-teaming to throw as many random topics at Pidge to keep her from remembering about the fact that she hasn’t seen Lance’s latest sketch. It works for the most part, but Lance isn’t entirely sure __how__ well it works when he catches Pidge surreptitiously glancing at him with a confused look in her eye. He knows it’s only a matter of time before she asks to see it.

He wishes he had a way to tell her that it wouldn’t come true, that he’d save Shiro and prevent his sketch from becoming a reality. He just hasn’t quite figured out the steps between ****Exhibit A: The Sketch**** and ****Exhibit C: The Sketch Comes True Like It Always Fucking Does**** that will allow him to prevent Exhibit C from being viewed by the general public.

Pidge’s phone lights up on the table and starts doing the boogie that signals a call (he means this literally. He doesn’t know how she did it, but she programmed her phone to vibrate side to side in place when it’s on any surface when a call comes through. She offered to do the same to his, but Lance feels like he’s more likely to shriek in terror if he sees his phone dancing in the dark in his room more than anything).

She picks it up and Lance focuses his attention on finishing up his muffin; just because he can lip-read as easy as anything doesn’t mean he should listen in on other people’s conversations that way. He’s just about done with the muffin by the time Pidge finishes. The trio leave the café with loud goodbyes to Adam and the rest of the staff as they make their way across the street.

Lance starts low-key freaking out about five steps out of The Atlas.

His heart kicks into gear and races a hundred miles per hour as they approach the store. There’s nothing outwardly wrong with it or anything to warrant his heart acting like this. In fact, it looks nice, a place Lance would go into out of curiosity to see what’s inside. Two large bay windows are situated on either side of the front door, plain wood that is painted an unusual but pretty shade of wine red with a wooden sign hung on it that reads, CLOSED, probably for the lunch hour.

There are already books on display at the windows; on the right side is clearly newer books, glossy hardcovers and unbent, unmarked paperbacks published probably in the last year or so, in mint condition. Then on the other side is a bit more of a surprise; ancient looking tomes that have Lance’s fingers itching to touch them, to crack apart the covers and see what’s written in the ageing brown parchment within. Everything on the window displays has been arranged to be neatly placed around on the velveteen cover thrown over the table they sit on, easily viewable from the outside.

Above the storefront hangs the sign for the shop; Marmora’s Books. The ‘Marmora’ dominates most of the space with a peculiarly designed dagger cutting through the space between ‘Marmora’ and the smaller engraving of ‘Books’. What looks like a single Galra symbol – he thinks that might actually be the Galra character for the word Marmora, but he’s not sure – is emblazoned on the hilt of the dagger.

“[Hey, Pidge,]” Hunk says. “[Is your friend Galra?]”

She nods, turning so that Lance can see her even though she’s walking ahead. “Yeah, he’s half from his mom’s side, Altean on his dad’s.”

 _[Cool,]_ Lance signs absently, valiantly trying to ignore the swam of homicidal dragons breathing fire in his stomach. Butterflies are way too tame to appropriately describe how _nervous_ he is.

He has never been this nervous to enter a shop or even meet someone. His palms are sweating. Shit, did he brush his teeth? Wait, what if there’s pieces of that muffin stuck between his teeth? And he doesn’t know?

Lance rapidly taps Hunk’s shoulder until he turns around with a mildly startled look at how panicked Lance suddenly is. “[Dude, what’s wrong?]”

 _[Look at my teeth – is there anything there?]_ he asks instead, baring his teeth in all their pearly glory.

Hunk decides to humour him and makes a show of peering at what seems like each individual tooth. “Besides your teeth?"

_[Hunk!]_

"Nah, bro, your teeth are fine.”

“[Are you nervous?]” Pidge asks, smirking.

_[No. I just don’t want pieces of muffin between my teeth. Dental hygiene, Pidge.]_

“Bisexual crisis, you mean,” she returns, smirk growing into a wide grin.

Lance tenses. _[What are you talking about?]_

“I saw what you and Hunk were talking about, that you’ve seen Keith before.” She leans forward and makes a show of whispering conspiratorially – even though he can’t hear it – “Don’t worry, Keith is about as straight as his brother. And in case it’s not obvious, Shiro is gay as fuck.”

Lance’s face instantly flames, the fire fed by the damn dragons in his stomach. Before he can say a word to defend himself, Pidge cackles and fist-bumps Hunk, who valorously attempts to maintain a stoic face but utterly fails when Lance splutters at them in silent, open-close motions of his mouth.

Hunk snorts. “[You look like a confused fish.]”

 _[Did you hear what she said!]_ He signs aggressively. _[I don’t have a crush! Who says I have a crush! I’m not nervous at all!]_

Hunk and Pidge nod at the exact same time. “Yeah, totally.”

_[I hate you both.]_

They laugh at him as he huffily crosses his arms and pouts at them like a kid denied candy before they all walk toward the store.

“[They’re closed,]” Hunk says, nothing the sign. “[You’re sure he said to come by now?]”

He sees Pidge’s jaw move, and his eyes slide to Hunk as he signs what she’s saying since she’s not looking at him. “[Yeah. Right now, Keith’s the only one working here while his sister helps out. He said he’d be here while she goes for lunch.]”

“[Wait,]” Hunk says, pausing on the sidewalk just in front of the store’s door. He glances at Lance. “[How many siblings does he have?]”

“Well…” Pidge squints thoughtfully, turning back to face Lance and Hunk. “[Okay,] don’t act like you already know this because I think it’s okay if I tell you this since Keith wouldn’t be bothered to, but don’t make it obvious. Basically, Keith and Shiro are adoptive brothers. Shiro was part of the Big Brother program, and then his parents adopted Keith and he grew up with them, then a couple of years ago Axca – that’s Keith’s sister – managed to find him and contact him. They were separated when they were in the system.”

Lance…isn’t quite sure what to say. Compared to that, his family situation is relatively neat and simple. And his family situation isn’t _actually_ neat and simple to begin with, so that’s saying a lot.

_[What happened to Keith’s parents?]_

She shrugs. “That he’ll have to tell you. I probably already said too much already.”

Lance can visibly see the gears spinning in her head as she tries to figure out if she crossed a line by telling them all that. If she _somehow_ forgets that tapping someone’s phone for location is a thing that typically violates consent, he’s not surprised she’s not sure about this. But Keith wouldn’t mind it too much, right? Pidge isn’t an idiot; she knows when to not talk about something. The fact that she doesn’t tell them what happened to Keith’s parents speaks to that. If she told them this much, it should be okay.

Of course, that’ll be a different story if Keith has a stick up his ass – but then again, Pidge wouldn’t be friends with someone like that, never mind being so excited to meet him. She’d more likely kick his ass half way to Sunday than be friends with someone who’d chew her out for that.

Pidge walks right up to the door and bangs on it, hard enough for the WELCOME/CLOSED sign to rattle against the door. She waits for exactly three seconds before lifting her ready fist to bang on the door again – but before she can, it swings inward.

And oh shit.

Oh _shit._

See, usually, when Lance sees someone good-looking, he’ll think, _Well damn, they’re [insert appropriate adjective]._ It’s hard not to notice someone who looks attractive, and when you bat for both teams, that’s a pretty wide spectrum to look at and admire. But when he thinks, _Oh shit,_ and his mind goes totally blank – as now – that can only mean one of two things.

One; they’re a celebrity.

Two; Instant Crush Mode has been activated.

And Keith? _Keith?_ Jesus this guy. _This guy_ has landed Lance straight into category two.

(He thinks he’d know by now if Keith was a celebrity.)

Lance can’t imagine how anyone can look this good. He thought Shiro was hot, and yeah, he is – but not his type. Considering he’s never dated before, he doesn’t exactly know how he knows he has a type, but he knows he wouldn’t go for someone like Shiro. He’d be too intimidated, honestly.

Keith looks like he has East Asian ancestry, but clearly not full-blooded like Shiro, maybe only half, or even quarter. Keith is an inch taller than Lance, as far as he can tell. He’s lean, but not exactly slender as Lance is because you can see that he works out almost as much as his brother does. He’s in a pair of black skinny jeans (Lance doesn’t fail to notice there’s no tears in them, just like his), worn doc martens on his feet, and a short-sleeved black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the impressive biceps he has, muscled but not bulging like he snacks on steroids on his free time. The t-shirt is only a little loose, but mostly form-fitting, and it does weird things to Lance’s stomach when he sees Keith’s trim waist and what he is absolutely sure has to be formed abs under that shirt.

But his eyes. God, his __eyes.__ They’re the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen. Lance’s attention is immediately drawn to them, bypassing but still noting the nicely-shaped lips, the chiselled cheekbones, pale skin that suits him instead of making him look ill (difficult line to tread), and looking straight at those eyes set under somewhat thick black eyebrows. Lance can tell right away that his eyes are one of those type that never seem quite sure what colour they truly want to be. In the span of the entire three seconds Lance gets a good look at them, they seem to shift from deep violet to fathomless black, then smoky grey before swinging back to that interesting shade of purple.

Lance is so screwed. And it hasn’t been even a full minute yet. The only thing he can think is, _Holy shit, he is hot enough._  Keith is most definitely hot enough to make up for that shaggy head of hair that is a mullet – and what the fuck, he even makes it look good. Keith is undeniably beautiful, but what keeps him from crossing the line into delicate prettiness is the sheer weight of the intensity in the violet storms of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw that speaks to an interminable force of will.

Lance snaps out of his gaping reverie when he sees Keith’s mouth moving, and forces himself to at least try to pretend he’s a normally functioning human being, and not a bisexual crisis, as Pidge so aptly put it.

(...she’s onto something with that though.)

“What’re you trying to do, break my new door down?” Keith is asking with a scowl – but Lance can tell it’s not real. Nobody can scowl like that and mean it when the corners of their lips are twitching up in a small smile. “I just got it two days ago.”

Pidge says something in reply but Lance doesn’t catch it since she’s looking away from him. Then she does turn around, gesturing at him and Hunk.

“[These are the friends I told you about, Lance and Hunk,]” she says. “[Lance is hard of hearing,] so I’m not insulting you in sign language if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Lance notices the faintly surprised look on Keith’s face when she signs it, but he easily takes it in stride as he shakes Hunk’s hand and says hello, then steps a little more past the door towards Lance who’s standing just a bit behind Pidge and Hunk. Those eyes are on him, __looking__ at him, and Lance feels like he’s standing over an open flame. He just barely manages to reach out and shake his offered hand – a good, strong grip, and _holy shit those are fingerless gloves_ – and the whole time, Keith doesn’t break eye contact even once.

It’s the most intense handshake Lance has participated in, in his life.

“Uh,” Keith frowns a little as he steps back, then lifts his hands and awkwardly signs, “[Hi, my name is,] uh, Keith,” he drops his hands, looking a little shy – holy fuck that’s a cute look on him – as he scratches the back of his head and says, “Sorry, I don’t know ASL as much as my brother does.” He blinks, as if he realized what he just said. “Wait, Lance as in Adam’s friend from the coffee shop?” he points behind them. _“That_ coffee shop?”

Lance blinks at him blankly for a moment, still a little caught off guard, for what reason, he doesn’t know. He nods, and he’s about to sign an answer before he realizes Keith probably won’t understand. But then he signs anyway, because Hunk is here.

“[Yeah, that one,]” Hunk translates smoothly. He rolls his eyes at Lance for a moment before continuing, “[The one and only. Shiro – Shiro?]” Lance nods for the correct sign for Shiro’s name that Hunk briefly stumbles over. “[Yeah, Shiro’s told you about me?]”

Keith smirks at that, a devilish little upturn of his lips that has Lance’s heart skipping several essential beats. Even though Hunk’s translating for them, Keith doesn’t look away from Lance, only to briefly glance at Hunk when he started speaking in Lance’s place. “Yeah, in passing. Mostly he won’t shut up about Adam.”

Lance beams at that.

“[Adam’s the same.] Aw, that’s cute.” Hunk smiles.

“You guys done flirting yet?” Pidge asks from where she stands just behind Keith, smirking evilly at Lance. “A little awkward when you need an intermediary, just saying.”

Both Lance and Keith blush a little at that, and Lance aggressively signs at her, _[Shut up with that already!]_

Pidge just cackles, and Hunk shakes his head in sorrow. “[Since you’re her friend, I’m assuming you’ve dealt with the gremlin plenty, right?]”

Keith nods seriously. “Best way to defeat the gremlin and put it to sleep for a while so the human underneath can see light of day is pumping it full of enough caffeine to kill ordinary mortals.”

Lance muffles his snort behind a cough as Pidge shrieks indignantly at Keith and attempts to deck him. He easily ducks her hit in a fluid movement with a laugh curling his lips up, and a pang goes through Lance; he wants to hear Keith’s voice. He wants to know what his voice sounds like. Is it a little rough and rugged like Keith looks? Or is it smoother? How low does it go? How low _can_ it go?

It’s that last thought that snaps his attention back to reality. He’s had crushes before, plenty of them. Lance crushes _a lot,_ falls in and out of the idea of love with people quicker than most would think, considering how much he keeps apart from other people and only sticks with those he knows and intrinsically trusts. But this is ridiculous. It hasn’t been five minutes and he’s already swooning.

Lance resists the urge to slap his cheeks. _Get it together, McClain!_ he mentally scolds himself as Keith pulls the door open wider and ushers them all inside, Lance trudging in after Hunk with Keith at his back. He is very overly aware of Keith’s intense presence right behind him. _He’s just a guy. A very hot guy. Who’s not quite straight._

Lance is doomed.

Thankfully, his attention is immediately nabbed by the sight of the inside of the store itself. For a long minute, he just gapes at it, astounded.

The last time he’d seen it was when he helped Lotor and Allura clear the place out since he moved his jewellery store to the one of the big shopping malls in the more bling-bling lucrative business district closer to the heart of the city. When everything was packed away in boxes and lugged into the moving van, the store had felt almost depressingly empty. The lack of shelves full of the signature style jewellery Lotor both created and sold made the whole space look so much bigger than he was used to. Probably because the display cases for all that glitter and gold were so large that it took up a whole lot of space.

The store is at least three times the size of Adam’s own comfortably large café. Lance has no idea how Keith managed to cram _so many books_ into the store, and somehow make it all look presentable and organized in something like under two weeks. And how does one person have access to this many? Seriously, the place looks like it has enough books to rival a public library.

The store isn’t quite as wide as Adam’s is, only as wide as the two (quite big) bay windows on either side of the door plus a few metres, but what it lacks in width it more than makes up for in length. The whole place extends far inward, enough that it takes a full minute to sprint from one end to the other (Lance did this once. Lotor wasn’t impressed and nearly kicked Lance out until Lance turned the puppy dog eyes to full volume and averted being permanently banned). That’s not to mention the back room used either as an office (that’s what Lotor did) or storage area, a second room in the middle of the length of the wall off to the left that’s definitely for storage, with an identical third room directly opposite the second for extra space.

Both sides of the walls have shelves drilled neatly into them, and every available inch of space on the shelves has been taken up with books with different coloured spines, though they seem to be grouped together to show for some uniformity in shades. In the space between the walls there’s one equally long ledge that stretches from floor to ceiling, filled on either side with books as well. Towards the wall at the back on either side of the door to the room he knows is there are additional shelves with two large tables under them and two chairs pushed neatly to each one, desk lamps with dark green shades set neatly in the corner closest to the wall. Other smaller tables with two chairs opposite each other are scattered about, situated near shelves. As Lance spies the covers on the books and the names on the spines of the ones in the shelves, he realizes that the books on individual stands on the tables are meant to make it easier to tell which shelves house which genre of books.

Lance likes books. He likes them a lot. They were worlds he fell into when he was a lonely kid, craving the company of other people but afraid of being rejected by them as he already had been by his family. When he was with books, he could pretend for a little while that he wasn’t himself, giving him the escape from reality that he needed. After meeting Hunk, and then Pidge, his dependence on books waned, but he still loves them.

Lance whistles appreciatively. _[Damn, this place is neat. It’s like a cosy library in here.]_

“[Yeah…]” Hunk looks absolutely awed as he gazes wide-eyed at the sheer number of books surrounding them.

Lance glances over at Pidge and Keith just in time to catch her asking him, “Your mom left _all_ this to you?”

Keith nods, with none of the fondness on his face that you’d expect to see when someone’s talking about their mother. Instead, his brow is pinched, lips pursed tight, eyes shadowed over with some unnameable emotion.

Definitely some complicated family history there.

Lance turns away from what is decidedly a private conversation despite his growing curiosity. He continues ogling at the books, eyes flitting from one shelf to the other, wondering which one he should check out first. He never sticks to just one genre, preferring to read just about anything that can capture his attention for longer than five minutes.

(If that. Lance has problems focusing on things for long. Hunk has hypothesized it’s maybe undiagnosed ADHD and after reading up on it, Lance is eternally grateful that if it is, it’s not so severe with him.)

Hunk nudges him with his shoulder. “You look like you’ve just discovered Shangri La,” he says with an indulgent smile.

 _[Look who’s talking,]_ Lance ripostes without missing a beat, lifting one eyebrow sky-high at the book already cradled in Hunk’s big but gentle hands.

Hunk shrugs, then lifts the book higher to show Lance the cover. It’s a cookbook, with recipes specifically from East Africa. “I mean, come on. Have you ever heard of – ”

Lance doesn’t quite catch the name, but it looks like Hunk says ‘ugali’. What the heck is that?

At Lance’s confused look, Hunk nods expressively. “Exactly! I don’t know what it is! But this book does!” he glances at the book again. Lance can practically see the image Hunk probably has of himself working away in the kitchen, his favourite place in the world (besides the car he’s building with his dad), in his eyes.

“And this – ” again, Lance doesn’t catch the name, but he’s pretty sure Hunk said ‘githeri’. “– looks so freaking good. And look, there’s more cookbooks down there!” his eyes are shining in the general direction he’s staring at.

Lance leans over his shoulder to peer at the picture in the book. Yup, he was right; it’s githeri. So far as he can see, it looks like rose coco beans and yellow corn mixed in some sort of gravy, with a smattering of parsley, onions, and diced tomatoes thrown in.

Keith steps closer up behind them then, Pidge having gotten distracted by what looks like a row of books dedicated solely to technology. Lance’s theory that she’s probably developing some kind of AI is further cemented when he sees her excitedly tug out a book that very clearly reads _Theory vs. Reality of Artificial Intelligence: Real-World Applications._

“Knock yourselves out, guys,” he says, hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. Lance feels something warm inside him when he notices that Keith doesn’t speak until Lance is looking at him. “Shop’s closed for lunch, and I have a feeling she’s going to be stuck there for a while.” He gestures with a thumb back at Pidge, wholly engrossed in the book in her hands.

Hunk takes the invitation and runs with it – quite literally, because by the time Lance has blinked twice, Hunk’s already halfway down the shop, striding in determination straight to the cookbooks he’d spied with the one he’d already found clutched almost protectively to his chest.

Lance probably would follow his example and start looking around for something that interests him, except, Keith’s standing _right next to him_ and Lance has forgotten what legs are supposed to do when he wants to use them. What even is walking? All he knows is being rooted to the spot, trying very hard not to ogle at the amused smirk on Keith’s face as he watches Hunk vanish down the aisle but utterly failing because. Hello. Keith is an attractive human being.

After a moment’s thought, he pulls out his phone and quickly types on the notepad app before holding the phone up for Keith to see.

_**I think you’re probably gonna have two more loyal customers from today** _

There’s no way Hunk will leave this shop without at least three books purchased. Pidge already has the book she’d picked out tucked under her arm and is reaching for a second one that’s caught her interest.

Keith’s a fast reader – unsurprising – and his eyes are on the screen for barely two seconds before a small smile lifts his lips up as he looks back at Lance. “You won’t see me complaining about that.”

**_Guess not_ **

Keith nods at him and says, “You take pictures?”

Lance blinks again, then glances down at his camera hanging by its safety strap around his neck. When it’s not in its bag, it’s around his neck, and the weight of it has been a familiar friend to him for so long that he oftentimes completely forgets it’s even there.

Lance nods, and he has absolutely no idea why he feels so freakishly _shy_ right now.

“Any good with it?” he asks. The way his lips form the words makes Lance think his accent might be Irish or something. He’s watched enough subtitled movies and TV shows to know that people’s lips shape words a little differently with various accents.

Lance lifts a brow, a little wiggle of competitiveness easing into him at what he can definitely tell is a provocation from the way Keith’s watching him intently. He quickly types out, **_Can I take pictures of your store? See for yourself if I’m any good_ _ ** _._**_**

“Sure,” he agrees readily, and Lance gets the odd feeling that he’s just been played. He doesn’t mind – at least the embarrassing shyness that could easily give way to awkward silence has been quashed. “Let me see them when you’re done, yeah?”

Lance nods, already lifting his camera to switch it on to have anything to look at that won’t suck him into twin storms that are shifting from violet to grey with every minute movement of light thrown on them. Now given free rein to wander the shop – but oh so aware of those eyes watching him – Lance lifts his camera every once in a while when he finds a display of books that sit in just the right puddle of light from the warm yellow electric bulbs screwed into the light fixtures that extend down from the high ceiling, and he uses natural light filtering in from the incredibly detailed stained glass windows – _stained glass,_ Keith really went all out with this – the tables are set next to.

At one point he gets a close-up of one book (a thick copy of _Brisingr_ that Lance is low-key tempted to just sit and read for possibly the eighth time in his life)that’s opened down to the middle, the page on the right bathed in sunlight and brightening it until it almost glows, while the other half on the left is shadowed by the wall. Lance only realizes that he maybe looks like a pretentious idiot trying too hard to look like a photographer or something when he straightens, zooming out of the picture to see how it turned out. He glances back to see Keith’s still watching him, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and hip cocked out a bit, a little half-smile playing about his lips that does absolute wonders to the integrity of Lance’s knees.

When Keith sees him looking over, he sends him a two-fingered salute that has Lance’s stupid blush intensifying as he jerks forward and practically parade marches over to where Hunk is hunched over about a half a dozen books, skimming through them.

 _I’m being stupid, I’m being stupid, oh my god I’m acting like such a kid,_ he chants to himself. _There’s no way he – no way, no way, I’m imagining things._

He’s just – he’s imagining things. He’s own sudden out-of-nowhere crush is making him think Keith’s looking at him maybe the same way he’s looking at Keith. But there’s no way, right? Lance – Lance is nothing to really look at.

To distract himself from the self-deprecating train-wreck his thoughts are driving towards, he immerses himself in taking pictures, but soon that gives way to the giddy excitement he always feels when being surrounded by books. His camera hangs forgotten around his neck as he pulls out one book, then another, then four more as he finds books he’s been meaning to read for years but couldn’t ever find them locally and was too lazy to order online, and picking out books he thinks Abuela might enjoy reading (she’ll never admit it, but he knows she likes those smut romance novels a lot).

He finds that fiction and non-fiction prose isn’t the only thing Keith sells in this beauty of a bookstore; there’s a section that’s dedicated solely to graphic novels as well, glossy and vivid splashes of colour across the pages. He even finds a an adapted graphic novel of the kids show he used to love watching, recently rebooted and showcasing graphics and art far superior to his childhood, Lions and their Paladins soaring through space, engaging in riveting battles against the still purple evil race of aliens still dedicated to universal domination.

He steers clear of the issues from that particular one. Sure, he remembers excitedly waiting up for new episodes, but it was also during one of those episodes that that one breaking news report had cut through and made him realize that there was something stranger about what he drew that went beyond the content being disturbing for a child to pen down.

It’s not until a while later that Lance realizes he has a tall pile of books on the table he doesn’t quite remember sitting at as he reads through the blurbs, setting aside the books he refuses to walk out of the shop without. Absorbed in that as he is, he pretty much forgets that maybe he should be a tad bit more social and talk to the three other human beings in the shop, one of whom he actually came here to meet, but…conversation is overrated.

The only reason he does realize that he’s been zoned out for so long in the first place is when pale, slender fingers – like a pianist – rap lightly on the book right at the top of the pile next to his head. Lance blinks, a little dazedly, and looks up to see Keith standing over him, holding his phone out to Lance.

Lance blinks slowly at the phone. Once. Twice. He lifts a befuddled gaze to Keith, who is looking more than a little amused at Lance’s confusion.

“Since I can’t really sign yet,” yet? He’s planning to learn? Why? “I figured it’d be easier to talk if I had your number.”

_I’m sorry what._

This is the first time a hot guy that Lance is actively crushing on has asked for his number. He can be forgiven for going still and his mind totally blanking for a solid ten seconds before he kicks into gear and damn near topples the chair over when he scrambles to stand. He blushes profusely as he steadies the chair and does everything he can to avoid looking Keith in the eye as he takes the phone and taps his number into it. He saves his contact in it, then gives himself a missed call so his own phone buzzes in his back pocket with Keith’s number.

That’s when it really hits him; he has Keith’s number. He has Keith’s number. Keith specifically approached him and gave him his number so they could talk easier.

 _Damn boy, you smooth,_ he thinks as he hands Keith’s phone back.

His phone buzzes again a second later, and he pulls it out.

****x-xxx-xx-xx-xx (13:18): Thanks :)** **

Lance blushes, __again.__ But how can he not? That little smiley is cute. Keith is cute.

Lance is doomed.

And yet, he is still smiling shyly, goofily, as he saves Keith’s number and replies.

 ****Lance (13:18):** ** ****n** ** ****o problem :)** **

## ×

Unknowingly to the two boys, Hunk and Pidge share a sly look, each of their arms laden with books they plan to buy but completely unwilling to interrupt the lovely moment they’re silently witnessing. Keith asks Lance something, and Lance eagerly nods, smile brightening as he tucks his phone into his pocket and lifts his camera, shuffling to stand closer to Keith as he shows him the pictures he’d just been taking. They’re close enough that their bent heads are nearly touching as they look at the camera.

They look freaking adorable.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Keith is impressed – and Pidge knows that he’s got a poker face to rival her own, and hers is top-tier. For all Lance claims he doesn’t what to make a career of it, he’s really damn good at taking photos. She’s pretty sure that if he ever does turn to it, he could be a successful photographer. Lance is almost absurdly creatively talented.

“I’m not the only one seeing sparks fly, right?” Hunk asks quietly, knowing full-well he’s not.

“Nope,” Pidge pops the ‘p’, grinning like an evil scientist. “Definitely not. I haven’t seen Keith smile that often, or like that, at _anyone_. We might as well not even be here.”

“And I haven’t seen Lance blush that much in under an hour in ever.” He adds, so impossibly happy to see that shy little smile on Lance’s face, entirely devoid of the hesitance that usually lingers behind it, as if Lance is afraid of being happy, or waiting for someone to reprimand him for it. He glances at Pidge. “Are we going to do anything about it?”

She gives him a knowing look, shifting the books in her arms a little when her fingers start to slip. She murmurs a thanks when Hunk plucks three from her arms, leaving the weight of the other four not quite so burdensome.

“Hell yeah,” she replies. “Keith knows what he wants and usually goes for it, but you can bet your ass he’s gonna be iffy that Lance is younger than him.”

“It’s two years,” Hunk shrugs one shoulder. “And he’s eighteen in like, under a month.”

“Did I say anything about Keith’s thinking being logical?”

No, she did not. “Well, _he_ may not be oblivious, but Lance is.” He hums thoughtfully, stroking his hairless chin as if there’s a full, bushy beard there. “Boy’s gonna pine for months.”

“Yup. If we don’t do anything, they’re going to dance around each other for years, not months. We’re all going to suffer.”

Hunk nods sagely. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Something must be done to save us all the awkwardness of it.”

The sly grin returns as she says, “Commence Operation: KICK.”

“Kick?”

“Klance Is Canon King.”

“Klance?” Hunk nods his blessing. “Ship name approved.”

“Never doubt my ship names, Hunk. Wanna know what’s yours?”

Hunk blinks, turning to her with a confused splutter. “M – mine? Mine what? Mine who?”

Pidge smothers her snigger at Hunk’s startled face. “Hunay. Or Shunk. Can’t quite figure out which one’s better.”

It doesn’t even take him .5 seconds to instantly know who she’s referring to. “I hate you and Lance. I disown you two. You are no longer my children. Never come to me for buckeye cookies again.”

Pidge can’t even bring herself to mourn the loss of her easy access to Hunk’s specialty baked goods – buckeye cookies are a _heaven_ for her peanut-butter-and-chocolate-craving tooth, too busy laughing at the fiery red shade Hunk’s cheeks have gone, bright enough to rival Lance’s.

## ×

When they’re all leaving, after a good two hours spent at Keith’s bookstore, Lance is surprised to find that he actually immensely enjoyed it. Even if talking to Keith (chatting to him on his _phone,_ because he has Keith’s number now, _oh my god I have his number he has my number help)_ left him an internally blubbering, outwardly blushing mess (which Keith definitely noticed, but bless him, he didn’t exacerbate Lance’s growing embarrassment at himself by pointing it out), he still actually liked talking to Keith. He didn’t know sign language much, but he used what few – very few – signs he knew when he could, and the fact that he made an effort at all had the dragons in Lance’s stomach settling down to warm, contented simmering. It was only marginally better than the flames from nerves.

Lance leaves Keith’s shop with the promise to send the pictures he took to Keith, a pretty carrier bag with that peculiar dagger designed on it at his side for the four books he bought (he doesn’t think about what it means that Keith’s fingers brushed the back of his as Lance paid for the books, not just yet), and his spirits higher than they’ve ever been. Hunk and Pidge are chatting about their own finds in the shop and what they bought, but for once Lance is content to let them be instead of reading their lips to see what they’re talking about. He happily hums to himself, unable to keep his mind away from violet starbursts morphing to grey storms. Today went much better than his nerves told him it would.

Lance’s good mood plummets the instant they are out on the street and debating getting something to snack on at The Atlas before parting to go home. Lance never really likes these moments when they all go their own ways. His way usually finds him trying to get into his house as quietly and unnoticeably as he can. The only thing that can dim his mood after the pleasant afternoon at Marmora’s Books besides the prospect of going home is seeing Shiro and being reminded of the fact that while he’s busy having a good time, the timer on Shiro’s life is ticking closer to the end.

Of course, that’s exactly who they see.

And of course, because Pidge is who she is, she notices his change in demeanour the second they all see Shiro and Adam walking down the street towards The Atlas’ front door, actually holding hands and smiling at each other as they stop at the door and Shiro leans into to give Adam a peck on the cheek. Or maybe it’s that she notices Hunk’s instant worried look cutting across over her head to glance at Lance.

Luckily (or maybe not so lucky since it’s only delaying the inevitable), they’re in the middle of the street, and just at that moment a car honks at them to hurry along so it can hurry along its own way. They quickly cross the street, strategically walking away from the café, and Lance feels like there are stones attached to his feet, getting heavier with every step. They’ve only just barely stepped onto the sidewalk before Pidge is spinning around to him, hands planted on her hips and painting a particularly intimidating picture of determined ferocity despite her small size.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” she demands. “You’re acting weird. Two seconds ago you’re on cloud nine, and now you look like you’ve just been told someone died.”

Lance winces at her on-point wording. Her eyes narrow when he does.

“Um, [guys? Maybe let’s go somewhere private for this?]” Hunk asks, hands fluttering about him nervously. People walk around them easily enough, the sidewalk being plenty big for it, but some people do glance over when they see Hunk’s hands moving around.

Pidge whirls on him. “Wait, you know what’s wrong?”

Hunk gulps. Angry Pidge is a Scary Pidge. “[Sort of?]”

She spins back around to Lance, but before she can say anything, he quickly signs, _[It’s – it’s about what I sketched this time.]_

She blinks, and he can see in her eyes the abrupt realization that she hasn’t seen the sketch yet.

“[Let’s just go to my house, okay?]” Hunk says quickly. “[My parents are out until later tonight, and yours are at home, right?]” he asks her.

Eyes still narrowed in suspicion, she nods. “Yeah, dad gets off early from work today.”

Lance tries to muster up as much energy as he can, and enthusiastically – maybe a little too eagerly – says, _[Great, to Hunk’s it is!]_ He immediately starts walking down the street in the direction of Hunk’s house.

Pidge darts in front of him before he can make much headway and asks, “But why didn’t you tell me?” she looks a little hurt at this, and Lance’s stomach shrivels at the sight of her confused frown. “You drew that over a week ago.”

“[If it helps, I only found out two hours ago.]” Hunk points out.

Pidge shoots him a withering glare. “[No, Hunk,] that does not help.” She turns back to Lance, arms crossed, foot tapping, expectantly waiting for an answer.

 _[I…]_ he gulps. His shoulders slump in defeat. _[You’ll see why.]_

Her frown deepens to a scowl, lips pursing. She looks like she’s about to press the issue, to get an answer _now,_ but thankfully, she gives him a terse nod. The tight band of apprehension doesn’t ease up at the give, though. If anything, it tightens, constricting his heart so that it feels like he can hear every thunderous beat drumming in the bone cage of his skull. This is nothing like the way he’d felt his heart pounding back in Keith’s shop. This is just…

He just…

He’s just tired. He’s tired, so, so tired of this. The fact that Pidge knows Shiro, the fact that _he_ knows Shiro and still had to draw that, still has to live with knowing that there is a timer on Shiro’s life right now, exhausts him. It drains him in ways he doesn’t even notice until he’s lying in bed and staring out the window at the stars blanketing the sky, bones aching with the fatigue from it all but his mind unable to sleep because of the sketch permanently imprinted on his brain.

It’s not just Shiro’s sketch that he sees; it’s every person he’s had to draw over the years, every sketch he’s followed the clues of to the sight of the death to see if it comes true, and always having to find that yes, it does. Yes, what he sketched three months ago was real, and no matter what he does, it will come true.

They make their way to Hunk’s home hurriedly when rain begins to fall, soft at first, little pitter-patters on their shoulders, before it turns into a torrential downpour. They sit next to each other on the bus at the back, in a bubble of tense silence. Pidge is clearly more than a little irritated at being purposefully kept out of the loop for so long. Lance resolutely keeps his eyes on the window, watching the grey film of the world as rain pours down.

As an only child with two working parents, the Garett family live in a big apartment building not too far away from The Castle. Hunk lets them in to the apartment and tells them to go on ahead to his bedroom while he fixes up a light snack for them all, since they hadn’t eaten yet. Lance knows Hunk likely would prefer to actually start cooking a late lunch instead of the talk that awaits them all, but he knows he can’t procrastinate forever. It would be nice, though, to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Hunk’s bedroom is like a reflection of himself. It’s themed in warm colours, walls painted a soft beige, a shaggy carpet of deep orange covering the expanse of the room’s floor. On the desk at the corner of the room with the closed window next to it sits a homemade computer that looks like a finalized version of the one being built in Pidge’s room, a closed laptop next to it, and three scented candles sitting half-burned to the base already. Hung over the back of the chair pushed up to the desk is the patterned yellow-brown-green blanket that Lance made for him a few months ago. In the other corner is Hunk’s single bed, and on the wall directly behind his desk is a small but fairly elaborate spindly wooden bookshelf that Lance fondly remembers helping Hunk put together years ago, filled with rows of books of various topics, along with a few odds and ends (there’s a screwdriver and a few loose nails there).

Pidge settles herself on Hunk’s bed as she usually does, legs crossed and her elbows propped up on her knees as she idly plays around with the Rubik’s cube that was on Hunk’s pillow, fixedly staring at Lance, wholly unabashed to do so. Lance moves stiffly under her scrutiny, sitting down on the carpet and pulling his bag on his lap, hugging it to his stomach like a security blanket and staring blankly out the window. The only sounds are that of the rain hitting the glass of the window, the click-clack of the Rubik’s cube shifting around, and Hunk’s tinkering in the kitchen.

Pidge shifts, and her movement has Lance automatically lifting his eyes.

“[So,]” she starts. “Keith’s nice.”

Lance’s heart pitter-patters. _[I mean. Yeah. Um. Yes, he is nice.]_

She smiles. It’s a little strained around the edges, but the fact that she’s not throwing things at him and is actually attempting a conversation is good news. “[Just nice?] You guys were full-on _flirting,_ Lance.”

He blinks owlishly at her. _[What.]_

“If you even _try_ pretending you don’t have the hots for him, I am going to throw you out the window.”

_[I am twice your body weight.]_

“You are an animate noodle with arms and legs.” She deadpans. She flexes her arms with a comically serious expression. “Don’t doubt these muscles, man.”

Lance snorts, his heart lifting in relief. Pidge isn’t mad at him. She wouldn’t be joking like this if she was actually, seriously, legitimately angry at him for keeping his sketch a secret from her.

_[I wouldn’t, if I hadn’t seen you struggle to carry that computer monitor three days ago.]_

“That was heavy!” she squawks indignantly.

Lance spreads his hand out as if he’s presenting something grand to a large crowd. _[I rest my case.]_

She narrows her eyes. “[Okay,] you win. _This_ time.”

_[I’ll take what I can get.]_

Just then, Hunk walks into the room, a tray balanced carefully on which sits three mugs of what Lance can dreamily smell is hot cocoa, and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies that’s likely to have been made by either Hunk or one of his parents. Each mug is personalized for them, considering Team Plank practically live at each other’s houses barring Lance’s.

Lance’s mug is painted sky blue with cute little sharks swimming at the bottom and dolphins along the rim; Hunk’s mug is a soft yellow decorated with cartoon cookies and the word COFFEE painted along the middle; and Pidge’s mug is emerald green with an image of plain, Harry Potter-esque glasses set above a laptop with green lines of code running along the screen. Hunk makes his way to his desk and sets the tray on the corner, going back to give the mugs to eagerly awaiting hands before taking the tray of snacks remaining and setting it on the end of the bed.

“[I’m glad you two are talking again,]” he says, settling next to Lance on the carpet between him with Pidge on the bed to his right. “[Short-lived as that lasted, the silent treatment does not look good on either of you.]”

In a perfectly choreographed move, Lance and Pidge stick their tongues out at Hunk like petulant children as they both reach forward to snag themselves two cookies each (Pidges tries for three, but the cookies are big, and her hands are small), cradling their mugs of hot cocoa. Hunk just shakes his head like an exasperated mother before taking his own cookie and dipping the curved edge in the cocoa a bit before munching on it.

The relative peace and quiet spent slurping up delicious hot cocoa and munching on signature Garett choco-chip cookies lasts for a few minutes before Pidge is brushing off what crumbs fell on her shirt onto the plate, then turning her amber eyes to Lance.

“[So,] if you don’t let me see it,” she says. “I’m going to strangle you in your sleep.”

Lance promptly chokes on a cookie.

Hunk immediately leans over and thumps a heavy hand on Lance’s skinny back, careful not to hit too hard because honestly, Lance is strong but he feels so – _frail_. Lance coughs and hacks to clear his throat before he sits back, nodding thankfully at Hunk and massaging his aching throat. Pidge, to her credit, looks a little apologetic for inciting the reaction, but not enough to say sorry since Lance kept his sketch from her for so long when he always shows them to her.

 _[You’re so blunt, Pidge. No tact whatsoever.]_ He signs shakily.

“[To be honest,] you deserved that.” She retorts. “You know I scan your sketches for my research. You know I’m doing that research in the first place to make sure you don’t die the next time you draw something.”

 _[I know,]_ he answers meekly.

For every new wave of data Pidge compiled after Lance drew something, she’d attach the scanned images of his sketch for reference. It’s how she’d made the correlation, just under two years ago, that the more violent the death, the worse Lance’s symptoms prior to drawing it were. Of course, that knowledge has kind of been thrown out the window since his symptoms have been steadily degrading for the last year no matter what he drew, but still. He knows the information Pidge collects, every bit of it, is important. She needs it.

(He’s not sure what he would have done all these years without her.)

His movements are slow and creaky, as if he’s a rusty and unoiled robot, as he pulls out his sketchbook. He doesn’t open it as he leans across the distance and plops it on the bed beside Pidge’s knees. She picks it up a little hesitantly, maybe realizing that there is an actual reason Lance didn’t want her to see this, and that reason could be something she’ll regret overriding.

But he knows she’ll still look at it, because he knows she’s worried about why his body hurts him more every time he draws something, and she is trying to find answers for it in the only way she knows how (and also bugging Matt every once in a while since he interns at their family’s hospital under Dr. Holt’s supervision, and he knows more about the human body than she does).

Pidge flips to the back of the book and thumbs through the empty pages, having no desire to revisit the images of all the people Lance has already drawn in the past. He can tell the exact moment she arrives to the most recent one from the way her entire body tenses, like she’s just been shocked by a wave of low-voltage electricity. He knows exactly what she’s seeing.

This last sketch, compared to the others, is unnervingly plain. Ironic considering it’s the one he most needs to be detailed, the one he needs to find clues in the most – yet there’s barely anything to go on. Like the previous sketch, this one is clearly the result of a fire. Pidge’s eyebrow twitches as she looks at it, maybe noting that this is the second death-by-fire sketch he’s done in a row.

A house burns in inky fire right in the middle of the page, immediately commanding attention with how totally engulfed by flames it is. There’s a cobblestone path leading from the house, and lying on a neatly-mown lawn to the right of the cobbled path, an ambulance just barely visible at the edge of the page, is Shiro. He lies prone on the grass, his face lined with the dark marks of some ashy substance probably, one of his arms – a distinctly metal one, a prosthetic – stretched out to his side. The digital watch strapped around his wrist, that Lance has already noticed a couple of times in passing, reads 13:58 PM.

There’s a paramedic kneeling beside the still body of Shiro in the sketch, back turned so that their face isn’t visible, an ambulance close by with the faint scratches of its lights sweeping across the page. The paramedic’s hands are on Shiro’s chest, probably doing chest compressions for CPR. The fact that Shiro is on this piece of paper means that the CPR won’t work.

Not unless Lance finds a way to stop this from happening – he still has no idea how he’s going to do that.

Unlike the previous sketch, there’s not much in the ways of clues to go on. The last one had been clearer in that the street on which the burning house had stood on is a well-known suburb where the really rich people live – Allura used to live there with her dad, Alfor, before he passed away and she decided to move closer to the city. That in itself wouldn’t have been enough to tell him anything. New Altea might not be huge, but it’s still a city, and it’s still pretty big. The thing about that sketch was that the name of the street had been written on a signpost just on the edge of the sketch.

Here, there’s nothing.

Just that house, flames of Biro ink ominously dominating the middle of the page, a row of nearly identical houses getting smaller to denote distance on the page heading towards the outer centre, and Shiro lying on the ground a safe couple of metres from the house, face soot-streaked and forelock of white hair flopping limply over the pink line of the scar across his nose. The only definite clue in this sketch is the time Shiro will die. That’s something that happens with every sketch; somehow, someway, the time of death is always included.

13:58 PM.

Pidge pushes the sketchbook off her lap so that it flops closed on the bedspread she sits on. Her face is made of stone, the usual brightness of her amber eyes dulled to muddy waters as she stares emptily at the closed sketchbook.

“Oh.” She says listlessly. “So this is why you didn’t want me to see it.”

Lance and Hunk sit in silence, wary of breaking it, choosing to wait for Pidge to say something more. Lance’s throat is dry; he wants to take a sip of his cocoa, but he’s almost frightened of moving right now. It’s Pidge sitting there, he knows, but in his mind’s eye he’s in a different room, facing someone else, someone that is his father, blame swirling in his eyes as he flings Lance’s sketchbook at him and yells at him, accusing him, _You enjoy this, don’t you, you sick, twisted boy._ _You_ enjoy _the power it gives you, having all these lives in your hands._

He swallows around the thick knot lodged in his throat.

Finally, after a long few minutes tick by in agonizing silence (one that is not audible, no, this silence is in how still they all are, waiting for someone to make a move and break the ice), Pidge finally looks up. Her eyes hold a fierce light in them that catches Lance off-guard.

“Did you not show this to me because you thought I’d do what your family has?” she demanded.

Slowly, as if his bones will crack and shatter to itty-bitty pieces if he moves too fast, Lance nods.

Pidge wrinkles her nose. “[No offense] to your family, Lance, but I’m not that stupid. I know you don’t have a choice in drawing these things. I know you’d never do this willingly even if you had the choice.”

_[Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m stupid.]_

“You’re not,” she retorts, surprising him. “You’re not stupid, Lance.”

“[Your family blaming you for something that isn’t in your control doesn’t make you stupid.]” Hunk says, speaking up where he’d chosen to keep quiet for a while. “[If anything, it makes them the stupid ones. No offense, but – yeah.]”

Lance cracks a threadbare smile. He knows it’s probably rude to let someone say that about family, but at the same time – it feels good to have someone stand up for him. He wonders if that makes him bad, for feeling that way.

Maybe his father is right. Maybe he is a sick, twisted boy.

He focuses on Pidge again when she shifts uneasily on the bed. She visibly swallows as her eyes are drawn back to the sketchbook, but she doesn’t open it again.

“[Lance wants to try and stop it,]” Hunk says slowly. “[To stop _that_ from happening.]”

She looks at him with her brows furrowed. “What? But…”

Lance knows what she wants to say. She was there the last few times Lance tried to stop his sketches from becoming reality. She was there to see little pieces of him dying every time they came true.

She turns to Lance. He can see her struggle with something – her desire to protect Lance from the destructive force of his own ability and how he’s never been able to stop it before, and her refusal to simply sit back and accept that Shiro, someone she knows, someone she trusts and considers a close friend, is going to die in three months.

Lance makes the choice for her, knowing that she’s torn in two directions, because either way, someone’s going to get hurt. Either Shiro dies, or Lance has to see it happen.

 _[I want to do this, Pidge,]_ he says. _[I_ need _to. I need to at least try.]_

Pidge’s eyes are glittering behind the lenses of her glasses as she bites her wobbling bottom lip. She looks like she wants to cry. Lance’s own heart pulses with pain for her, and he desperately wishes he could have kept this from her. She’s too young to have to deal with this, with _his_ problem.

She’s smart, far more intelligent than most her age, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s only sixteen years old, even if she is graduating high school early. She’s still too young to see the faces of people who are going to die soon and have to deal with that knowledge, and knowing there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

Slowly, shakily, she nods. Then she says, “I think we should tell Shiro, but – not Keith.”

He blinks at her. That came a little out of nowhere. Granted, he knew that he’d probably have to approach Shiro about this, but he thought to do it later, when he’d exhausted every other option in preventing his death to begin with. And what does she mean by ‘not Keith’? Keith is Shiro’s brother, he could help keep Shiro safe. Lance is sure he would.

He cocks his head curiously and asks, _[Why do you say that?]_

“Because I know he’ll believe us,” she answers firmly. “The others, they didn’t believe us because they just thought we’re kids playing a cruel prank on them or some shit. But Shiro, [I know him,] and he knows me, and if we tell him this and show him the sketch, he’ll know we aren’t lying.”

“[Are you sure about that?]” Hunk asks. “[No one’s ever believed us before.]”

She nods firmly. “I’m sure. Shiro’s different. At the very least, he’ll know I wouldn’t lie about something like this. And if we tell him and he knows to be careful, that alone increases our probability of keeping him alive.”

Lance nods slowly, already feeling a glimmer of hope light up in him. Pidge looks so sure, and he can trust her. She’s known Shiro the longest of the three of them in this room, and if she says that Shiro will believe him, then he’s more than willing to give it a shot. That’s more than they’ve ever managed to do with everyone else Lance sketched. Not one of them ever believed him, and every single one of them died.

He frowns a little. _[But why not Keith?]_

She hesitates, fidgeting with a loose thread in her shirt before fingering the handle of her cup for a moment. “Keith’s dad was a firefighter and he died in a fire, when he was eight. If he sees this sketch, if he sees that Shiro’s supposed to – to die because of a fire, too…”

Oh.

Lance tries hard not to think too much about the fact that he intimately knows what it feels like to lose someone you love at that age, and pushes it to the farthest reaches of his mind. Still, it makes something in him squirm and feel weird about having to consciously keep this a secret from Keith. Sure, they barely know each other (yet), but Lance…he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if it’s only on his end, but he – he _feels_ something for Keith. He doesn’t know if that’s just his crush talking or if it’s maybe something more than that (the romantic in him talking, so sue him), but he knows he doesn’t want to have to watch himself when he’s around Keith to make sure he doesn’t slip and mention something about his older brother dying soon, and __how__ it’s going to happen. He doesn’t want to already have this monumental secret to keep from Keith when they’ve only just barely met.

Lance sighs, crossing his legs and propping his elbows and his knees as he runs his hands through his hair. His lips twist in vague irritation when he feels the curl through the brown strands and remembers that he forgot to properly straighten them out this morning, in a hurry as he was to get out of the house.

He sighs again, turns his focus to the matter at hand. He’ll think about Keith and wonder why this crush of his feels so much __heavier__ but buoyant at the same time, why it feels so much more than anything he’s ever felt for someone else, at a later time, when he’s not so emotionally wrung out.

 _[So…when will we do this?]_ he asks. _[We have a little under three months to figure something out.]_

“[School’s out in a week, right?]” Hunk asks. They both nod. “[And our parents want to get together to celebrate our graduation. Lance, what about your…?]”

Lance purses his lips. _[Mami’s made sure that we’re going out for dinner.]_

He didn’t want it, and tried to convince her otherwise, but Mami was adamant that they’d all go out to the Balmera Restaurant the evening of Lance’s graduation ceremony to ‘celebrate’, and also because his father wants to make some important announcement at the dinner.

He knows it’s going to be awkward as hell, and he desperately wishes they wouldn’t be doing this because he __knows__ some shit will happen, his father will try to pull something, or Luis will be a little cruel shit like he always is, and Marco will try to defend Lance like he always does but he’ll be the only one against the whole family because Mami’s too gentle to try going against his father, and –

Lance halts the spiralling track of thoughts when he feels a lump rise in his throat. He doesn't know any of that will happen. He just hopes it doesn't.

“[Sorry,]” Pidge says with a sympathetic look. “[If you want,] you can come with me and Matt and my parents? We’re just going to have dinner at home, and you’re practically family anyway.”

“[Same here,]” Hunk puts in. “[In fact, mom and dad specifically said that you should come over sometime because they want to, A, thank you for the quilt you made them last month that they’re genuinely wanting to buy another one from you, and B, congratulate us on graduating. You could always just conveniently forget to go home and sleepover.]”

He smiles at them, grateful that they’d bother trying to make him feel better.

 _[Thanks, but…it’ll probably make things worse if I don’t go,]_ he says. _[My dad’s already starting to make an issue of how little I’m at home anyway.]_

Funny, considering Lance is sure his father is more than pleased with looking at the empty seat at the dinner table that Lance is supposed to sit in every night, but is not actually at more often than not these days. At this point, Lance doesn’t care about the near constant rumbling of his stomach from avoiding the house as much as he does. It’s worth it if he doesn’t want to sit through the silence that coats his skin like sticky oil whenever he’s around his family.

The trio hang out for a few more hours after that, Hunk and Pidge tag-teaming to drag Lance out of his morbid mood by teasing him about Keith (it works, _so well),_ before they all end up binge-watching TED Talks and debating whether it’s worth it to have a stroke and experience what Jill Bolte Taylor did when she had hers, and other videos about why humans have an emotional connection to robots as Kate Darling claims (Pidge and Hunk flinging bits of popcorn Hunk eventually makes at each other and arguing what the fantasy vs. reality of an AI-run world would actually look like, further cementing Lance’s theory that Pidge is secretly developing one).

This quickly devolves into watching YouTube videos ranging from makeup (Pidge swears Shiro’s eyelashes are just so thick he looks like he’s wearing eyeliner but actually isn’t, and the one time he did try he looked like a scary Japanese demon who doesn’t know what sleep is, and that Lance can totally get photographic proof of this – he just needs to ask Keith from the pictures he took. Lance throws a pillow at her) to Buzzfeed Unsolved (Lance is pretty sure that if Mothman proposed to Pidge, she’d marry him on the spot despite her asexuality), to mouth-watering tutorials on how to cook githeri (Hunk studiously scribbling down notes for what ingredients he’d need to try it out tomorrow).

By the time Lance gets on the bus to his stop and is walking the rest of the way home, he feels better than he did in the morning. Not only did he get to meet a hot – no, _beautiful_ – guy today who inspires weird fluttering feels in his stomach with the way he looks at Lance, not to mention _said guy’s phone number,_  but he also managed to patch together some sort of a game plan on how to keep Shiro alive. He feels better, but his anxiety and dread over the issue isn’t totally washed away.

Lance’s sketches have never been wrong.

## ×

He’s at home later that night, skipping dinner with the family with the excuse of an upset stomach, and mindlessly scrolling through Instagram where he posts his pictures and has garnered quite a following, when his phone pings with a text. His eyes widen when he sees the contact’s name, and he nearly drops his phone on his face as he scrambles to go to the text, grinning dopily like a fool on drugs.

****Keith (19:18): Hey** **

****Keith (19:18): You awake?** **

His heart thumps like a herd of wildebeest are racing across his chest as he tries to keep calm and not mortally embarrass himself via text. Still, he turns his face into his pillow and shrieks a little, because he’s still a boy being contacted by the boy he very much likes in a very much romantic way.

Jesus, it’s been a day. A _day._

****Lance (19:19): yep. what’s up?** **

The three little dots pop up almost immediately, and Lance sits up in bed, hugging his pillow to his stomach and his eyes nearly glued to the screen.

****Keith (19:19): Nothing much. Couldn’t sleep** **

****Lance (19:19): you usually sleep this early?** **

****Keith (19:19): I mean, I try** **

****Keith (19:19): Doesn’t usually work out** **

Lance nods sympathetically to himself. He knows all about that. Before he can reply, another message slips up the screen.

****Keith (19:20): It was nice getting to meet you today, btw** **

Lance bites his lip for a moment. He thumbs at the screen slowly, carefully, and his next message is far more daring than he’d usually ever be. It’s not really, but at the same time, it really is.

****Lance (19:20): same here. who knows, we might bump into each other again** **

****Keith (19:20): Yeah, Shiro mentioned you’re a regular at** ** ****A** ** ****dam’s** **

****Keith (19:20): And since I** ** ****’m** ** ****right across the street…** **

Lance is pretty sure he knows how he’ll die; death by multiple consecutive heart palpitations.

****Lance (19:21): you read my mind** **

There isn’t a reply as quick as the others, and Lance remains watching his phone even as the screen dims. He’s just starting to feel like maybe he made a mistake, maybe he was a little too forward, maybe Keith’s just being friendly and this isn’t at all what he thinks it might be, when the screen lights up again.

****Keith (19:24): Shiro’s nagging at me ‘properly lock up your store, you’re an adult’, so I’ve gotta go** **

****Keith (19:24):** ** ****B**** ** **e an adult** **

****Lance (19:24):** ** ****e**** ** **njoy adulting :D** **

****Lance (19:24):** ** ****w** ** ****a i t that sounded different in my head sorry** **

****Keith (19:25):** ** ****A**** ** **nd how did it sound in your head?** **

Lance blinks at the screen. That’s – is that – flirting? Or not? How does he know if that’s flirting or Keith avoiding being an adult and locking his store up and using the conversation as an excuse? Oh god, how does Lance even _know?_ How is he supposed to tell? And what’s the right thing to say either way?

 ****Lance (19:26):** ** ****d**** ** **ecidedly more innocent?** **

****Keith (19:26): I guessed so** **

He groans, smacking his forehead against the glowing screen as he breathes out a heavy sigh. Having a crush is hard. Talking to said crush via text is astronomically harder.

This is why he hates texting, which is highly ironic considering it’s the only viable way he can technologically communicate with most people. It’s so hard to convey emotions on a couple of pixels and cyber dust without looking like a total idiot inserting three million emojis to show what you mean. But then again, Lance is sure that if he were having this conversation with Keith face-to-face, he’d have spontaneously combusted by now.

…yeah, no, he has no clue which is worse. Having no clue how to tell what Keith’s really thinking through the texts and possibly making a mistake, or talking to him (kinda) and risking the possibility of looking like a roasted tomato.

 ****Keith (19:25): :)** ** ****N**** ** **ight Lance****

Well. If Keith’s going to use one, Lance will too.

 ****Lance (19:25):** ** ****g**** ** **ood night** ** ****k**** ** **eith :D** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve mentioned that I won’t reply to comments on the story itself because that (idky) gives me a weird anxiety, but here’s my social media if you want to talk to me! I’d still love to chat!
> 
> [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) || [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) and I have [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/azurehyn) if you…want to know what I look like I guess?
> 
> I made a [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/azurehyn), so hit me up there because…it’s the only way I’m ever going to use it otherwise tbh


	7. 12.07

_He can hear._

_Someone’s calling his name._

_No – screaming. Someone is screaming his name, begging, for something._

_He can…feel something. It – it hurts. It’s down, above his legs, below his chest. It’s in his stomach, hard like a tiny piece of metal tearing through his skin and into bone, pushing deep inside him,_ hurting _him. He can feel warmth coating skin gone ice cold, can feel it dribbling over his fingers slipping over another’s, pressing into his stomach, trying to keep the pain at bay, to keep the blood from leaking out._

_Someone’s screaming, so loud he can hear it. Everything is a haze before him – he can’t – he can’t see clearly. All he knows is he’s on his back, trying to breathe around the boulder of pain sitting in his stomach, and blinking blearily at black hair thrown wild around a pale face with dark violet storms for eyes._

_“Lance – Lance, stay with me, please, they’re almost here.” There are crystals, in those beautiful eyes, crystals that slip out of them and land on his cheeks like little pinpricks of ice._

_Tears._

_The face above his, saying his name, pleading with him, is crying._

_A peaceful lull washes over his mind as his eyes hazily start to drift away. He wants to stay, to say it’s okay, don’t cry anymore, this was a long time coming, but his jaw is stiff from clenching tight to bear the pain. A hand presses against his cheek, a hand he didn’t realize was there._

_“No – no no no no, Lance, you have to stay awake, please – please, Lance,_ Lance!”

Lance wakes up a little past midnight with a ghostly pain in his stomach and his heart aching in his chest, but no clear recollection of what dream startled him out of sleep.

He frowns as he remains utterly still on his bed, staring up at his ceiling. His heart – it _hurts_ so much, but he doesn't understand why. He mouths one word he feels the need to say, though he doesn't know why.

_Sorry._

He clears his throat, swallowing, feeling how dry and unused it is. He can’t hear himself when he says it, not really, but he can _feel_ the sorrow that ebbs in his voice as he whispers throatily, “I’m sorry.”

But…why?

##  ****×** **

_“No!”_

The shout is ripped out of Keith’s throat, where his heart is lodged as he jackknifes off the bed, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead and neck as he drags in heavy lungfuls of air, eyes wildly searching the darkness of his room. His hands tremble with adrenaline-borne fear as he reaches for the lamp on the bedside table and flicks the light on, shuffling up the bed until he’s sitting with his back to the headboard. His heart hammers so loud that it’s the only thing he can hear in the echoing silence of midnight.

There’s – there’s nothing here. Everything is in its place, his room still messy as ever even though he’s only been living here for less than a month. The chilly air of the night leaves the sweat on his chest and legs cold, but he makes no move to wipe himself down. He’s still too – jittery. Vaguely, he thinks he can hear the _tap-tap_ of Shiro working on his laptop, but maybe he’s just imagining that, searching for any sound to hint that the world didn’t die without telling him about it.

The only sound he can actually hear is that of his own hard, loud breathing as he tries to calm his racing heart.

He swallows thickly, one hand clenching and unclenching around the rumpled bedsheets he’d thrown off him when he jerked himself out of that – that _horrible_ nightmare. He has that sensation coursing through his body, one he’s familiar with; the need to run. He wants to, _needs_ to run.

But for the first time, he doesn't feel like he needs to run from something. This time, he feels like he needs to run _toward_ something – but even as he searches his memory, desperately grasping at the tangling strings of the nightmare, he knows he won’t figure out what it is he needs to go to. The memory of the nightmare is already slipping away, until all he can remember is fading ocean light (how does that even make sense?), and the intensity of that desperation and thick fear pumping through his veins.

It wasn’t fear for himself. He was afraid for someone else.

But…who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’ve mentioned that I won’t reply to comments on the story itself because that (idky) gives me a weird anxiety, but here’s my social media if you want to talk to me! I’d still love to chat!
> 
> [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) || [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) and I have [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/azurehyn) if you…want to know what I look like I guess?
> 
> I made a [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/azurehyn), so hit me up there because…it’s the only way I’m ever going to use it otherwise tbh


	8. author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not a chapter

Hey guys

 

Okay, so. I know it’s been a long time, almost an entire year for some of my fics since you’ve last heard of me. I’d like to apologize for practically dropping off the face of the earth with zero warning and no explanations. But, here is an explanation as to why I suddenly vanished;

University.

I’m currently in university in Japan, which is a goal I’ve been working towards for the last 5 years. I’m in an intensive program to learn Japanese right now before starting undergrad years, and…by god, it’s _intensive._ I’m enjoying my time in Japan but holy crap, I’m just –

That’s the reason why I haven't been updating any fics in so long. I’m literally just too exhausted to write. I do have some stuff squirrelled away that I might post, but like, I haven't been able to actively write in a while because this program is literally sucking me dry, and I have to give it my absolute all because I can’t afford to fail.

So, I’m posting this update/news/author’s note as a reply to the comments I’ve been getting on my fics asking for updates. There’s been kind of a…idk, increase, in them? Which I’m incredibly grateful for, but also feeling guilty about it because it’s been so long since I’ve updated literally anything.

I hear you, I really, _really_ want to write and give you guys something, but I literally just cannot. I will do so as soon as I realistically can, but that’s not going to be for a while yet, probably until around the end of February when I get month-long break. But no promises, because I’m likely going to be sleeping like the actual dead. And also apartment-hunting. Because that is a thing.

Also, I know I’ve already mentioned this in either one or two of my fics before, but I thought I should say it again since I’m putting this notice on all my fics; I deeply appreciate each and every single comment I get, and I encourage them because they’re so incredibly wonderful and motivating, but at the same time, I can’t reply to them. I don’t really understand or know why, but I get this weird sort of anxiety about replying to comments that seriously messes with my ability to write the story, so I stopped replying to comments on my fics. I do sometimes reply, but mostly don’t. I hope you can understand.

That's not to say I've given up on this story. I have not, I absolutely have not. I just need time to focus on my studies before I can continue.

Also, happy new year everyone! Probably not a nice way to welcome the new year with this message, but, uh…happy new year? ;;

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://www.azurehyn.tumblr.com) || [Tumblr for my passion project](https://www.inkusenshoku.tumblr.com) || [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/azurehyn) ||  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/azurehyn)


End file.
